


After the End of the world I will Find You

by dog_mu, mphelmsman



Series: Shattered Sky [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, BAMF John, BAMF Lestrade, Doctor who cameo, M/M, Original Character(s), Post-Reichenbach, Reunion, Shattered Sky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-08
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-01-03 23:54:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1074536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dog_mu/pseuds/dog_mu, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mphelmsman/pseuds/mphelmsman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Fall the world as they know it ends. Surprising friends, old and new, help Sherlock and John find each other in a Universe that seems to be broken.  Will the knowledge of worlds beyond the one he understands drive Sherlock insane before John can reach him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lost in London

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my wonderful Beta Lois and my spectacular artist partner Pandamani!

 

Sherlock hunched against an alley wall in a place he thought **must** be London, shivering convulsively, clawing at his own brain to bring what he saw in line with what he knew MUST be. The headache he had seemed to have forever blurred his vision until everything took on a dream-like quality. He started back violently as a tiny woman with wings floated out from a pub talking with someone he could just barely categorize as human but dressed in outlandish Medieval armor and carrying matching weaponry. That could not be right, it was not LOGICAL. He felt the growl in in his throat but could not really hear himself over the incredible dinning ring in his ears. Sweat drooled out of his pores, soaking his clothing until he felt as if he had spent an hour in a molasses slow rain and the shivering intensified until he had to clench his fists close to his chest to avoid knocking something and making noise in this place that was but could not be.

That gesture triggered some memories he thought he had deleted to wind their way out of the dungeon of his mind palace. He knew these feelings, some of them, the sweat, the shaking, headache, starting violently; it all fit. He was in withdrawal, he must be, and though he did not remember taking any drugs he knew from past experience that if he had been high long enough he would not. That had caused some not actually voluntary ‘deletions’ in past days. What had he taken? A hallucinogen? Not his usual choice and it was useless when he was supposed to be dismantling Moriarty’s ‘consulting service’.  John would be so angry.

_John_

His knees buckled and he practically fell as the vision of his best friend’s, his only friend’s face appeared in front of his eyes; real enough Sherlock half raised one hand to touch. Then he flinched as the visionary (hallucinatory) John ‘s face folded into elegantly expressive line of disappointment and disgust. He moaned, wanting to tell John this wasn’t his fault, the world had gone mad. But a head shake and an agonizing throb of his head dispelled the vision. John wasn’t here, couldn’t be here. He was **looking** for John, his John who would certainly be able to explain things so they made sense.

“I’m sorry.” He felt the words on his lips but still could not hear himself although at unexpected intervals sharp noises, metal on metal, languages made up of clicks or growls, ripped through him offending his senses over and over. He shouldn’t have done this, **couldn’t** have done this! He was travelling to save John. He had … fallen to save his John. This weakness that had crept over his  **transport** could not be allowed.

But he had, he must have, because nothing that he saw could be real. This. Was. **London**. He knew it in some way that he could not encompass in words. The streets were right mostly, though the architecture was older, Elizabethan? But with wild deviations that his mind could not bear when he found them. Some seemed to be temples that glowed with a soft light that was neither electrical nor chemical in origin. Some tower type buildings that should not be able to stand up under their own weight! Why could no one see?! Again he felt his mind clawing at his senses demanding data that had some logical form.

Footfalls approaching, determined strides, like a constable but with an oddly ringing metallic note. Sherlock pressed himself into shadows and dropped his head down to his chest to meld better with them. The slow blossoming light banished his safe covering and he started up looking wild eyed at the three figures approaching him with guarded but determined expressions. Sherlock could do nothing stare at the ball of silvery light, like a tiny moon actually hovering into the alley and moving directly towards him. It must be a drug, it must be! Maybe he hadn’t actually taken any, maybe it had been introduced into his system by an outside force, like at Baskerville. A groan ripped from his body and he knew it formed a name, the last safe concept in his torn and tattered brain. “John! John Watson!”

He was wildly trying to find an escape and praying to a deity he had never actually believed in that John would find him soon when finally heard words over the crashing din in his head. “Ardric, Talien, cut off the other end.” He was caught, John  **must** find him.

He turned to dash away, hopefully towards his friend, his *soldier*, when two enormous hands caught his shoulders and lifted him up. His eyes started out of his head, his last thoughts of control and escape disintegrated by the fact that what was holding him simply could, not, exist!

Skin more like hide covered the enormous hands that held his shoulders. They were a man’s shoulders but massive, as was the neck that supported the head of a bull who somehow had his eyes to the front of his muzzle. This could not be real, could not! His body practically convulsed as he tried to free himself and screamed the only words his mind knew anymore. “John! John help me!”

Behind him the voice he had heard first dimly penetrated even as he struggled, “Serafina, preliminary diagnosis.”

Another, softer voice, a woman’s , “Gate sickness, Commander. He’s a refugee as I thought, but there is something else. It’s making it hard to get a clear read on him.”

“Calm him down” This time the voice came from the apparition that held him. “He is going to hurt himself if he struggles much longer. I can barely hold him as it is.”

Sherlock swung his arms around, fending off a needle that he knew was coming, now keening his friends name. “Joooohn! I’m sorry! Help me. JOHN WATSON!” But the last thing he knew was a simple deft touch and an invocation in ancient Greek that his mind redundantly translated, “Pallas Athene, wisdom’s daughter, cover this suffering soul with the shadow of your shield, wrap him in the peace of your mantle, and with your wisdom bid him sleep.”


	2. London Under a Shattered Sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has learned to live a different life, in a different London, without Sherlock. And every morning he makes a cup of tea to sit beside a dusty violin case. All he can do to help himself cope he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my wonderful beta. and everyone who reads. Thank You!

John jerked awake to the sound of his name being wailed making his head ring so painfully that he rolled into a ball and put a hand over his ear instinctively. It was the echo of a voice he had missed for so long his entire being had become defined by the loss. “Sherlock,” he muttered, flinging his other hand out to clutch the sheets, as if by doing so could grasp his long-lost friend’s hand.

He didn’t know how long he stayed that way, minutes or hours, but it was the buzzing of his morning alarm that finally penetrated shaking him out of the daze.  “Nightmare,” he muttered; he knew it was.  Not like the others, involving roofs or war zones, but nowhere outside of a dream, could it be that _Sherlock Holmes_ would wail his name like he was the only real thing left in the universe.  A shudder passed through John as his mind replayed that memory for a moment.

With a jerk he banished the tatters of dream and memory to roll out of bed and start his morning.  He dressed carefully: dress slacks, shirt, and jumper; all of business-like charcoal.  The outfit was formal enough that he could impress those who needed a professional look but comfortable enough to *move* in. As such it had practically become his uniform in the last few months.  He wore it as such, scrupulously clean, and precise.  He picked up the jacket that went over all, moved to the sitting room of 221B and performed the next part of his morning ritual.  It was just one of the habits that he had used to patch himself back into some sort of working order since the world had gone insane. Now Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers could no longer stay by the sidelines and mourn in peace.

He folded his jacket neatly over a chair, went to the kettle, and carefully made two cups of tea.  Then he took them both to the windows, set one down near a dust filmed violin case and drank the other while he contemplated the sunrise.

It was always the sunrise or sunset sky that made the present situation of his world most apparent to John.  The sun still rose, although he had been told it was an illusion brought about by people's need to *have* a sun in the sky.  He could well believe it, too, because seeing it was always like looking at its reflection in a cracked mirror.  The outlines of the glowing orb were jagged, with different parts moving faster or slower than the whole.  Then the eye was drawn up to where other parts of the sky held the same effect, like cracks in a teapot.  John waited until he saw a flash of light slice through and lance down like a celestial spotlight.  “You would have deduced the pattern of those flashes in a day,” he said to the dusty violin case.  “Then you would deduce why the sky was broken, who had done it, and we’d be off chasing them within half a breath.”  He sipped the last of his tea waiting for Mrs. Hudson’s knock to come in and share their breakfast. It was prudent to combine resources when the rationing had begun; so they shared most breakfasts since John had moved back to 221B. The morning knock wasn’t long in coming, and John courteously opened the door.  However, he was mildly surprised to see former Detective Inspector Lestrade right behind her.  “Greg,” he asked without asking. 

The silver-haired detective grinned and lifted a bag.  “Had an early morning and an incoming caravan.  I was able to get some of the first pick, and I thought you might appreciate some real sausages and fresh vegetables; tomatoes, onions and mushrooms. The world that the caravan just came from was in the middle of harvest and had extra.”   Lestrade also glanced at Mrs. Hudson.  It was winter here, and with the rationing her health was not as good as before … well, just before.

“I’m out of milk, too,” John smiled.

“Got it,” Lestrade grinned back.  “It’s not exactly from a cow, they tell me, but it’s … comparable.”

“It’ll be just fine for us, John,” Mrs. Hudson said.  “I checked them all over.”  She twiddled her gloved fingers at him, took the bag from the former DI and bustled into the kitchen.

John shook his head with a half-smile, and stepped back to let his friend through.  He watched Lestrade stare at the untouched tea, and almost moved to intercept him grabbing it.  The DI contemplated it for a long moment, then made a vague gesture of salute before turning back to John.

“It must help to have a land lady with psychometry,” he said ruefully.  “Maybe I’ll join you more often.”

“Only if you bring more like you did today.”  John shut the door and started to lay the table, trying to ignore the pang in his heart when he didn’t have to move a microscope or various experiments.  Greg gave him a knowing look and helped. “Anyway, it’s better than some of the skills that are turning up.  Poor sods going mad because they can hear everyone’s thoughts, or feel other peoples’ emotions…. We’re having a hard time finding places for them all.”

Mrs. Hudson turned slightly away from the stove.  “At least all I have to do is wear gloves, dear.  I feel for those who can’t turn it off, I really do.”

“Actually, some of those that came last night say they can help them. Train them how to turn it on and off.”  Greg said as he sat down with a tired sigh.

“Do you think they really can?” John asked.  It was his business to ask this.  Somehow, not long after the almighty storm, which heralded what had come to be called the Shattering, he found himself placed in charge of the ministry in health and human services that had to do with “oddities”.

“Yeah,” Greg said.  “Most of them are of that gray-cloaked lot who helped us fight off the troops of the nutter who set himself up in St. Albans.  And the ones that weren’t were vouched for by them.”

“Guess I’ll be meeting them today.” John nodded absently to Mrs. Hudson as she set a plate in front of him.  “Didn’t get a chance to talk much during the invasion.”  John had been recruited to command troops to fight off the horde of … things when what was left of the police force and other London security couldn’t stem the tide. 

It wasn’t long after that that a grey-cloaked army had started to pour out of places they called “Gates”; magical holes that led between world splinters.  They brought weapons that, at first, seemed bloody stupid; swords, bows, staves, and the like.  They cut down the attackers better than any of the conventional munitions, and every team of grey-cloaks fought like an SAS force unto themselves.  They had gone as quickly as they had arrived though; leaving behind knowledge of the other worlds that lay beyond these Gates, some trade contacts, and precious little else.  And it was just after that that John had gotten an offer that changed everything...again.

*****

John was doing rounds in one of the buildings pressed into service for the less seriously wounded when a pair of walking suits came right up to him and said, "This way please, Dr. Watson."

He knew immediately who had sent them and he was having none of it. "Tell Mycroft to piss off. I have work to do here." John knew that the personal tragedy he carried was small compared to what was happening all around him. He also knew that in the absence of Parliament it was probably Mycroft that ran the city, perhaps saving it, and could put him up against a wall to be shot without anyone asking questions. He'd be buggered if he would come to heel at the Iceman's call, though. He could neither forget nor forgive the fact that Mycroft had handed Moriarty everything the bastard had needed to drive Sherlock to suicide. It would be a waste of time to fight these minions off but this is where people needed him and the elder Holmes wasn't worth a piss in his mind.

"Doctor, I was told to ask you two things if you would not come away immediately. First, do you think that these people are all that need your care?"

"I know there's more!" John half shouted, then looked around and gritted his teeth, this place was far too public. "Here." John dragged one of the suits to an alcove, "Tell your boss that I'm doing what I can, where I can and he can keep his interference to behind the cameras I know that are on me." John couldn't help another dig, "Tell him to make his power plays behind the scenes while I help those who pay for them."

"Yes sir." The suit said to him, "There is another question."

"Yeah, cheers, I don't want to hear it." John walked away.

"Mr. Holmes asks if you would like to know the real reason his brother Fell." The question cut John so badly he had to stop and lean against a wall, panting at the pain shooting through his whole body. For a minute he was back at the sidewalk in front of Bart's, desperately clutching at Sherlock's wrist to find a pulse that his Doctor's eyes knew would not be there.

John swallowed hard and said, still facing away, "He's not going to leave me alone, is he? Whether he has anything real to say or not, he will have you say anything that will bring me to heel."

The second suit, who John noticed had a sympathetic look, walked over to him. "We only know what we are told, Dr. Watson, but Mr. Holmes was quite adamant that we not come back without you."

John pinched his nose and sighed. "Fine." He said shortly, "But you can wait outside while I find someone to cover for me. There are only a couple of ways out of this place and I'm sure you know how to cover them both." His voice was bitter with suppressed rage.

One of the suits started to protest but the one with the sympathetic eyes stopped him. "Your word is good, Doctor. We'll be at the curb with the car."

John snorted as they walked away, of course *they* had a car, with little gasoline to be had the government were the only ones to have vehicles in use. The rest had to walk and be thankful. It didn't take too long to go up to the barracks like room that the single, former military medics like himself were using to stay close to their patients. It took even less time to find someone to cover for him. Most of the men and women staying here had little else to do with their lives now that London had been cut off from the rest of their world. He felt comfortable here, where no one asked what tragedy had given them nowhere else to be useful. They didn't care that his personal tragedy had predated this cataclysm that the grey-cloaks called The Shattering.

John didn't need anything else with the summer like weather, so he simply walked out and got into the long black car without another word. All his attention was taken up with suppressing the absolute rage that filled him. At least he wanted to wait until he had the proper target. The suits rode in the front of the car and kept silent. They knew that any misjudged word would set him off. It would too. First Sherlock's suicide and then seeing his beloved city turned into a battle field had made John's control of his temper uncertain. No one was safe. When he had been called in to report on the invasion defense to Scotland Yard Sally Donovan had made one remark about 'the Freak'. The next thing John knew they had been dragging him off her, and it had only been Lestrade's intervention that had kept him from being locked in the cells. He wasn't in the least surprised when he had been sent to the other side of the city to treat patients that only recognized him from the newspapers.  Everyone had more on their minds by that time than the sensationalism leading up to.....the Fall.

It didn't take long for them to get to the nondescript building where John supposed Mycroft ran the City. It was a bit of a surprise that he hadn't set up shop in the Diogenes Club but John supposed the administrative staff would have made too much noise for that most silent of places. And John was sure, absolutely sure, that the Diogenes members kept to their rules amid all this chaos. It would take far more than the universe shattering to change that place. For much the same reason John expected to see Mycroft just as he was; immaculate in a three piece suit and an elegantly understated tie. "Ah, Dr. Watson, good of you to join me."

"Piss off,” John said with as close to the scathing tone Sherlock employed as he could. He felt an instant of vicious joy as he saw Mycroft's face flicker. In a Holmes it was as good as a flinch.

"Whatever you do think of me, Doctor, I assure you I would not disturb you for less than urgent reasons."

"Ta, yeah. You mean the same kind of reasons that led you to killing your brother?"

John could see Mycroft's jaw firm. The British Govenment sighed in that ever so patient way of his, set down the papers he had been holding and walked closer to John, "John, whatever you may think of me I did *not* kill Sherlock."

John clenched his hands into fists, "No, you just handed Moriarty every tool he needed to kill him for you. I knew you had sibling rivalry issues but..."

"Please Doctor." Mycroft leaned forward but John backed up, incidently placing himself in a good fighting stance.

"But back in the beginning you said you worried about your brother constantly and I was fool enough to believe you."

"John I *do*....."

"But it didn't stop you a second in selling him off, piece by piece, just to get what you wanted. I doubt you've had a single restless night over it." John felt himself settle into the cool almost detached state that he'd had on the battle field.

"Dr. Watson!" Mycroft roared over him, his face contorting "I didn't kill my brother because he is still alive!"

John felt the statement slam through him and light the fuse of his rage, even if for a suddenly different reason. His fist connected with Mycroft's jaw hard enough to slam him to the floor. Then he stood over the prone man, panting, "You had better not be fucking around with me, Mycroft. I don't care if you run the city; lie to me and I *will* kill you." 

"I didn't know myself at first but he came to me a few days after. He also asked me for exactly two things. A set of 'clean' identification papers from every country in whose language he was fluent and to keep a tight surveillance on you.” Mycroft didn't try to scramble to his feet but just lay on the floor rubbing his already purpling lips. He opened his mouth and gingerly felt his teeth, one coming away into his fingers. He took out a handkerchief and spit some blood into it. "That's why you've seen the CCTV cameras following you. And why you would get sudden visits from Lestrade and others during the first few months."

John finally turned away, wiping his face in his hands, remembering the late night when Greg had showed up just in time to talk John's Browning away from his temple and out of his hand. It had been just before the world had gone insane and suddenly they both had some much to do that John was simply too busy to think of anything other than doing the job that was in front of him. Then his brow wrinkled, "Why? Why all this to begin with?"

"I told my brother once that caring was not an advantage." Mycroft lifted himself to his feet, and brushed himself down. "He could always anticipate physical or mental attacks; could map them out better than many generals I had seen. But he was consistently surprised by attacks directed from emotional motives; he simply could not plan for them. In the end neither could I really and Jim Moriarty was no fool." Mycroft looked at John's still confused face, "Snipers can be such efficient tools, deployed properly."

John swallowed as his memory rang with Sherlock begging him to not move, to keep John's eyes fixed on him. He felt his stomach roll with sudden nausea and he clutched at a chair back, "I was being targeted that day." His tones felt like lead.

"And Mrs. Hudson, and Detective Lestrade. Three guns, three bullets; even Sherlock Holmes could not counter all three in time. They had to see him jump or you would have all died." Mycroft collapsed into one of the chairs, hiding his eyes for a moment. "He didn't tell me exactly how the Fall was managed but did say that Miss Hooper had helped him. And then he *begged* me to watch you, gave me instructions on how to bug 221B in ways you would not see.” The elder Holmes looked up at John and his eyes shown with tears that he would never let fall. "My brother has not begged anything of me since he was seven years old."

John stood for very still, clutching the chair back and blinking as he tried to make some order of what he was hearing. Sherlock was _alive_. His heart pounded out that message so strong John could feel it thumping in his temples. Sherlock had begged Mycroft to keep an eye on John. The Detective had valued John enough to ask a favor of someone that he'd rather chew off his left arm than apply to for help. And above all......above all even though John had called him a machine and Sherlock had said 'alone protects me' the idiot had leapt off a bloody roof to protect the people he obviously cared for. Also John knew there was no guarantee that any scheme involving that kind of risk would work. Any amount of things could have gone wrong and left Sherlock simply injured...or worse, in a vegetative state.

John felt all the months of barely contained rage spill out of him and he collapsed in the chair facing Mycroft's. "Where is he?" He begged simply.

"The last communication from him was from northern Italy. That was the night before the Storm hit." Mycroft said simply, "After that......" an elegant hand waved helplessly. After that there had been no way to even find other parts of their own Britain outside London, much less halfway across Europe. "Even then he wasn't sure that the entire web had been taken down here. I was working on it personally but it was complicated, levels and levels of communication and compartmentalization...... I couldn't be sure I had gotten them all. So all I could do was keep watch and try to protect who my brother treasured most."

"Then why," John clutched his hands together and put them to his trembling lips, swallowing bitterly against the fact that he'd not fully realized how much Sherlock had cared...did care for him, "Why am I here now?"

"Our visitors in the gray cloaks, they call themselves Quest's Children or simply Questers. During the defense, part of their force pulled their attention away from the invasion to attend to what Jim Moriarty left behind. This morning they informed me of their actions just before leaving. I don't know how they did it and they didn't give me a chance to ask. But as of now there is not a single operative I suspected of being Moriarty’s. There were a few they delivered that I hadn't even dreamed were involved. The only bodies left were a few that had been on the front lines. They delivered one to me personally that had been on my own staff and was able to confirm to me that every other cell had been eradicated, seconds before he died, that is. They are quite, quite merciless these Questers." Mycroft wiped a hand over his forehead and John could see his discomfort. "Like it was a personal vendetta for them."

John had a thousand questions over why such strangers would care but he wiped them aside for a more pertinent, more urgent question, "Can they find _him?_ " He said with quiet desperation.

"They assured me that they would try, John, but the matter is more complicated than I could ever dream. This....Shattering has hit more than our world, more than even our universe. It's hit every universe we can imagine, any universe we can dream of and a lot we don't they told me. And it is spreading." Mycroft half laughed and John's stomach sank at the note of suppressed hysteria in it, "They even left me evidence of it all." Mycroft lifted himself up and took what looked like a glass paperweight from his desk. It started to glow with rainbow colored lights that resolved into a floating screen similar to a computer monitor. "A way to call for help I was told."

"What's it made of?"

Mycroft looked through the semi-transparent screen at John and for the first time ever the Doctor could see terror in his eyes. "I was told.......magic."

******

After that John had made it his business to stay close to Mycroft; since he figured if any news of Sherlock came in it would probably come there first. At least, it had started that way. John quickly learned that although Mycroft had always seemed to be bedrock stable what was happening now had basically crushed that bedrock into quicksand. It didn't show obviously but there were certain things Mycroft simply could not deal with. After John had found Mycroft going without sleep trying to figure out the 'distress beacon' one too many times he had simply confiscated it and tellingly, Mycroft had let him. That had started a general shift in their working relationship with John starting to handle the odd things that Mycroft couldn't seem to even contemplate. When it had got too big for him to handle alone John had simply brought in Lestrade. He figured if the DI had been able to deal with Sherlock for all those years he was probably flexible enough to help deal with the various madnesses that filled their days.

It had turned out to be a pretty good idea too; Lestrade seemed to be able to keep his cool with whoever and whatever made up the caravans that had started almost immediately to bring in supplies to the undernourished city. John was able to concentrate on taking care of the strange things that were happening *to* the people of the city. It felt strange sometimes when the three of them got together over a bottle of ridiculously rare scotch to compare notes for John to realize that they were in essence running the city of London. At least John didn't have time to be bored. And although they never spoke of it the hope that Sherlock would be found ran like a golden thread under every conversation. John clutched at that thread to keep himself sane.

Mrs. Hudson had made a rule of no business talk at her table so the two men simply dove into their breakfast with minimal conversation. Lestrade's marriage had finally dissolved completely and John didn't have a life other than work these days so they confined themselves to complimenting Mrs. Hudson on her cooking. John had gotten up to grab his jacket when Greg got a text on the phones they had managed to restore to some sort of service. "John," he said, his voice suddenly serious, "There are a pair of Questers who just arrived asking for you by name. By *exact* name."

John felt himself pale. It could only be news of Sherlock. "Greg..." he said helplessly, hope and dread warring in him and paralyzing him. That Sherlock wasn’t actually with them could mean he was......no. John shook his head against that thought.

Greg grabbed his short silver-grey coat and shoved John's jacket into his arms. "Focus John. We go and we find out and then we find out what we can do."

John couldn't argue with that. So he simply followed the silver haired man out of the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are candy. Please feed the author.


	3. Gray is their Raiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds out that Sherlock never knew Lestrade at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my wonderful Beta! Posting early for Yule.....bright blessings to all who celebrate the newborn sun!
> 
> Thank you to Foxievampire for her wonderful art!

Lestrade had been one of the first to acquire a car that ran on something other than petrol so it didn't take them much time to get to Kensington Gardens, where most caravans came in. John felt like he had a live salmon flipping around in his stomach and from the look of Greg he wasn't much better. "It'll be alright, John. I know it." The DI said gently.

"How do you know, Greg? How can anyone......" John clamped his jaw shut. If Sherlock was alive he would have demanded to be brought here; even injured he had always pushed away any help but John's. So if a pair of Questers were here, and without Sherlock, it was because the detective *couldn't*.

"I have faith, John." Lestrade said seriously, keeping his eyes on the street to make sure they took the quickest route.

"Faith? In what Greg? The whole world, the universe, has gone to complete shit, so what is there to have faith in?"

"Maybe just that things can always change towards the better. The proverb I've heard is, Questers carry change under their cloaks. So at the very least we'll be able to get some questions answered. I've been giving every caravan that comes in a description and a message to pass on to Sherlock to tell him to get his ass back here. "

John tried for a grin, "And you think he’d listen to you?"

"Nah," Lestrade's grin was impish, "I forged your signature, mate." When John turned to him with an astonished look, the DI's grin got wider. "What you think I haven't picked up a thing or two myself? I've been a cop a long time and got to be a detective quite a bit before I met the great Sherlock Holmes. And a good cop knows just enough dirty tricks to get his job done."

"You're trying to distract me." John accused.

"Is it working?" Lestrade pulled into a cordoned off parking area.

"A bit."

"Good. Now let's go see what news there is to be had." Lestrade got out of the car and contemplated the teeming crowd.

John could count the banners of at least six caravans fluttering in the wind and security was having a hard time keeping people from trying to grab goods as they were being offloaded. "Fuck,” he said feverently, "How are we going to find anyone in this?"

"Welcome to my daily grind." Lestrade chuckled, "Let me try to tag someone who can lead us directly to the right people." He got out a radio and started to inquire of his people. John, in the meanwhile contemplated the crowd. He wasn't surprised at the barely controlled savagery of some of those trying to get more than their fair share of the food and other goods brought in. He had seen scenes much the same in Afghanistan. It just saddened him to see it in his own home city. Most of the time he was insulated from this, dealing with a slightly more legitimate madness in the people who suddenly had perceptions they had never had before and couldn't control. He was suddenly glad he didn’t have Lestrade’s job. Having to deal with this sort of thing every day would have made John ready to shoot something. And he wasn't sure whether it would have been one of the crowd or himself.

"Okay," Lestrade said, "We can go around all this. The ones we want asked for a bit of a secluded area to rest. Apparently they aren’t used to a city environment. Come on."

The two men skirted the massive crowd carefully. Some fistfights were breaking out around a wagon that looked filled with casks. "Christ, every time." The silver haired man said almost to himself. "There are more fights over any alcohol that comes in than the food. The IQ of a mob is the IQ of the smartest person divided by the number of assholes in the bloody mob."

"You say that a lot." In fact, John thought he could remember Lestrade saying it just about every time he had to share a report at their planning sessions.

"It's true a lot." Lestrade shot back, "And believe me it barely matters what species comes through the Gate with supplies. People are people no matter what shape they take."

"Is that how you keep your head when non-humans come through?" John nodded towards a griffin that came in for a landing on top of the cask wagon and gave a raptor’s screech that had most of the crowd scrambling away, their fights forgotten.

"Partly. If his nibs would just let a few of the ones like that stay if would make handling all this a lot easier."

 "We can barely house and feed what people we have and we don't have much to trade."

"Mycroft's got you believing that has he? Well, let me tell you the first few caravans that came through were charity pure and simple but to keep the food coming in we had to *find* something to trade. There wasn't much here that was really wanted or needed in the world splinters who have the more land under the plow but the caravanners needed people who had a way to find Gates and a way of dead reckoning. We found that among London cabbies there were quite a large group that can sense Gates and all of them can sense where they are in relation to here. That was why a lot of cabbies suddenly decided to emigrate. Most of the single ones work in teams with one caravan or another."

John felt his jaw drop, "Why haven’t you told me this before."

Lestrade snorted, "First, the service of the cabbies was the only thing we had to trade that would bring in enough food to keep the rest of the city alive. Two, it was my division and I didn't want to get in an argument with you. And three, they were all volunteers. I negotiated to make sure they all rotated here every three months for R & R. You had your hands full, John, and I know how to do my job."

"Right, yeah, sorry, Greg. I don't know why I immediately started thinking it was some sort of underhanded scheme."

"Cause Mycroft would do it if he thought he could get away with it. But all the caravan masters insisted on volunteers and they had ways of checking to make sure it was all right and tight. As cabbies these people were in one of the lower rungs of society; now they are some of the most valuable people on any world. A lot of them may never come back here to stay. They like the privileges of being a valuable commodity."

"Brilliant." It still felt odd to say that to someone other than Sherlock but Lestrade exuded a confidence here that he had never shown at a crime scene. John couldn't figure out how but it was pretty plain in the way Greg guided him around the edges of the crowd. Even the caravanners made way for him respectfully.

It took them a while, but finally they managed to get around the various clusters of wagons and people to where a young man in a constable’s uniform waited. "They are this way sir." He said to Lestrade.

"Thanks Philips, lead the way please."

"Yes, sir."

The young patrolman led them away from the slightly organized chaos. John hadn't been to any of the parks in a long time and the ascetic beauty of the bare winter trees with the light dusting of snow that had fallen last night struck him to the core. It made him think of Sherlock's strange beauty, something John would have never admitted to when they had run through scenes like this after some criminal.

John swallowed down the bitterness of the chances he'd missed; mostly through his own stubborn denial. He'd never been attracted to a man before Sherlock. He had admired and respected other men, but none of them had drawn him in like the whirlwind that was Sherlock Holmes. Up until the Fall John had mistaken their relationship for a particularly intense friendship, something like what happened between army mates who had to rely on each other for their very existence. But the pain he had felt at Sherlock's 'death' was unlike any other; not even the grief of fellow doctors dying under his hands could compare. Losing Sherlock had been startlingly like losing a limb, losing a half of himself. So after one particularly dark night filled with alcohol and remorse, John finally admitted to himself what had been impossible before. Irene Adler was right; Sherlock and he had been a couple. All the girlfriends had been a blind to him and to the Great Detective that John was heterosexual and still looking. John finally admitted he was closer to bisexual and Sherlock had been all that he really wanted. Excitement, danger, mystery all wrapped up in an ethereally beautiful package.

That had been the night that Lestrade had talked John’s gun out of his hand, confiscated it, incurring a debt of gratitude that John could never repay. It was more or less the tie that helped them work together so well now and in such a different world.

Turning the corner, both the men stopped at the sight in front of them and John heard Lestrade gasp. It wasn't the troika like sled that stunned John, although it's carvings of Celtic designs were quite gaudy to his eyes, it was the animal that was harnessed to it. John had become somewhat more familiar with horses since they had been more employed around the city as the petrol ran out and others could not get the magical equivalent that Lestrade had but this was not a horse. John's mouth opened in shock at the huge, swept back, ebony wings that stretched from the equine's back and he gulped at the blue, softly glowing, horn that spiraled up out of the broad forehead of the beast. It looked more dangerous to John than any weapon he had ever seen.

Lestrade's reaction was quite different to John's own. After the initial startled gasp of he sprinted to the thing. "Stinan!" The DI yelled like a boy encountering a long missed schoolmate, and ran to hug the muscular neck of the thing. John stood frozen, unable to get a hold of just what was going on.

"Greg!" John heard an oddly resonant voice answer Lestrade and was shocked further to realize it came from the harnessed equine. He sounded as excited as the DI and nuzzled the man like John had once seen a beloved horse nuzzle a favorite rider in the Queen's guard.

Out of the troika stepped a tall slim figure of a woman; or rather, he noticed after a moment, of an Alfain female. The elflike ears and brows and the gold tinged skin and her height all identified her as such. She looked startled herself for a moment then seemed to recognize Greg. "a'Strade?" She asked her cool, high voice shaded delicately with her surprise.

Lestrade lifted his face from the neck of the strange equine, "Lyra," he grinned, the cocky grin John had usually seen during a fake drug bust at 221B. "You travelling with this old reprobate? I was wondering when he would find me." Greg lifted his hand to scratch around the horn of the equine. "You're late. Could have used you months back." He accused laughingly.

The Alfain tilted her head, confusion wrinkling her delicate features, "You are mistaken a'Strade. I am on Quest, tracking one John Hamish Watson."

"Ah yeah, that's me." John stepped forward, totally confused. "Do you know me?"

Lyra's cool brown eyes looked deep into his and for a moment John was frozen by them. Then she nodded once  and whispered to herself "Yes, you are the one." Then her eyes widened with amazement. She shifted her gaze to Lestrade, "This is your John Watson?"

"Yeah," There was a strange look in Greg's eyes, joy, astonishment and determination mixed, "And we are missing a Sherlock Holmes."

This time the horse-like creature spoke, the voice trembling with something John couldn't guess at, "We have a Sherlock Holmes who needs his Dr. Watson after a Great Fall."

John wanted to speak but the strangeness of the scene held him frozen. Something was happening here beyond all that he had ever guessed was involved with finding the lost detective. Lestrade's eyes were filled with an anticipation that John couldn't understand. "May I be released then?" The DI asked.

"Yes Greg," Stinan said, "I have something that belongs to you." The equine tuned his head around to pluck from his harness what appeared to be a Scotland Yard badge. He swung around and pressed it to Lestrade's shoulder. The coat that John's friend nearly always wore began to *change*. The color lightened to a silvery grey and the sleeves disappeared while the entire garment became longer. A hood appeared at Lestrade's back and the whole thing became a voluminous cloak.

"Christ," John breathed, taking a step back, "You are one of them. A..."

"A Child of the Quest? A Quester?" Lestrade said quite calmly, adjusting the cloak around him. "Yeah I am and for quite a while too John." The silver haired man John thought he knew, straightened and seemed to start on a speech long prepared.  "Years before I met Sherlock I was a beat cop. I stumbled upon a group of Questers being attacked by a bloody Wyvern that had somehow stumbled through one of the old Gates. That started my journey to...well this." Lestrade brushed his hand down the cloak. John saw that it picked up muted shades of the snow, trees, and even John's garments as it shifted.

"But you never said, never even hinted that you knew what Questers were much less was one of them!" John shook his head, disgusted by the feeling of betrayal.

The Alfain stepped forward, wrapping her own grey cloak around her garments that were shades of green and brown, her long straight black hair flowing out behind her. "Dr. Watson, he could not. Once it was known that he was a Lestrade who would encounter a Sherlock Holmes gaesa, spells of restraint were placed upon him so that he would not be able to speak of us, or even to remember when in the company of a Holmes. He has been highly honored for being willing to be so restricted, preserving the story that he would be a part of. a'Strade could have chosen to leave this world. Instead; he made the choice to remain."

"And to stay I had to make sure that Sherlock or his brother would never even get a hint that I was anything other than a *slightly* more intelligent cop." Lestrade leaned against the Stinan's broad, coal black shoulder. "But think about it for a second. I first knew Sherlock as a kid who had gotten in way over his head with drugs. I bent and broke rules to let him on to crime scenes and then let you in on his say so without even taking a look at your ID to check that you were really a Doctor? Didn't that seem even a little odd for you?"

John was taken aback, "I....you said you needed him."

"I did. No one can work his way through a case like a Sherlock Holmes and my closure rate was the highest in the Yard. But none of that explains why I simply accepted *you* without even inquiring into your credentials." Lestrade gave him a steady look, "You assumed Sherlock dominated me and that's exactly what you were meant to think. That doesn't mean it was the truth. I had been waiting for Dr. Watson to walk in to the life of my Sherlock Holmes and I was damn happy when you finally showed up."

"Your Sherlock Holmes. You say that like there are Sherlocks all over the place!" John clenched his jaw; too much information was flooding his mind. He felt like he was drowning in it.

"May I a'Strade?" The Alfain asked.

"Knock yourself out Lyra." Lestrade said, turning back to comb through the rich black mane of the entity John supposed he must now think of as Stinan. "If I keep going now I’ll basically be apologizing for my whole life and that's not on my list of things to do today."

John knew he had hurt his friend, but this story was far too much for him to handle calmly. "Yes, please, could someone turn my whole world over again and shake it, I find the whole experience invigorating as hell!"

"Please, Dr. Watson," Lyra's demeanor did not change at all. Her expression was calm, a bit distant, but also fascinated. It reminded John abruptly of Sherlock when he was thinking over a case, and that refocused the Doctor. Sherlock was somewhere and the way to get to him was to assimilate this information as quickly as he could so he could get to wherever his friend was. He could do that. The Alfain saw this and so continued. "You may have encountered the idea that there can be many alternate universes perhaps?"

John nodded shortly, "Of course, yeah, Sci-Fi and Fantasy writers use them all the time."

"They are not wrong. Universes deviate, sometimes from small occurrences, sometimes from larger ones. This planet, Earth, had a very large occurrence just before its last Ice Age that caused it to become the focus point of more alternate universes than any other planet in the known cosmos. Other planets may have a few alternate versions, but no one has ever been able to count how many alternate Earths there are."

John nodded, "That's why all the things that were thrown at us during the invasion were so different."

"And why none of your technology will work beyond the borders of the city. London, all of the Londons have remained intact during the Shattering because the 'occurrence' that caused the Earth splitting off happened here." Lyra recited this as if it were primary school knowledge. Perhaps to her people it was.

"Your people did it." John said, "I read something about that on the link that was left with us. Couldn't make it out really. Something about a Spell of Balance?"

"Hell I almost choked on my drink the night you told me that you got it to respond to you." Lestrade put in, still leaning against his Stinan's side. "Those things aren't supposed to react more than minimally to someone not cloaked."

"A'Strade, please. We have only a certain amount of time." Lyra turned back to John. "That being said, with the multiplicity of alternates it means that there are alternates of  people as well as places. They are not carbon copies. A soul cannot be cloned, but because they are often molded by similar lives they tend to *be* similar. So my friend Greg Lestrade is not the only one, nor is Sherlock Holmes, nor are you, John Watson. On some Earths you may be woman, or even non-human. On others you may even be a character of stories on the page or the screen. But you are always much the same at heart and you are always are seen with Sherlock Holmes." She folded her arms over her chest, "And Sherlock Holmes always needs his Dr. Watson."

"We, the Questers, have something like a scientific law about this, John." Lestrade said softly, "For every reality there is a fiction and for every fiction a reality. I was pretty young when I had to accept the fact that my life was driven by what was or would be a story in another universe. I had the option to pop myself out of it when I accepted the cloak of a Quester.But the Lady of the Quest took me aside and explained to me what could happen if I did. She had met a Sherlock Holmes, you see, and she knew how hard it could be for him. Harder in our 21st century society than the 19th century that she had met him in. She explained it all to me and what spells she would have to cast over me if I chose to stick with it."

"The Lady is always thorough in that regard." Stinan added, "I was involved as well because during the time Greg was preparing to take the cloak, he and I found we were suited to each other as Partners. It is a profound connection between an Allyrian such as myself and another that is usually life long."

"And she made sure I realized what price I would have to pay to stay here and be the DI that Sherlock Holmes would come to for cases." Lestrade shrugged, "I made the choice to stay and watch out for him...and you. It was worth it."

"So you knew.....all along what was going to happen. Me showing up? Moriarty?" John again felt the need to accuse his friend.

"Well sort of. I wasn't allowed access to the stories of other alternates, that's generally not a good idea anyway. At first I was just told to watch for Sherlock and then watch for you. But 15 years ago..." he glanced at Stinan and Lyra, "by our reckoning anyway; there was a big gathering of Questers. We call them Conclaves and this was one of the largest that there had ever been. The Lady was going into seclusion for a while and wanted to celebrate with all of the Quest's Children before she did."

"Seclusion?" John shook his head, "Like a nun or something."

"More like protective custody." Lestrade said, "She was pregnant and so vulnerable. Questers have opposite numbers, Wayfinders, and they aren't the nicest people." Lestrade scratched behind his ear, "I suspected Jim Moriarty once of being one of them, but he turned out too chaotic. Wayfinders believe in Order."

"You're a cop, Greg. Don't you believe in law and order?"

"Well yeah, but I also believe in people being able to make their own choices. Wayfinders don't like that concept. And some take that to an extreme. The Lady had a good reason to hide. She took the time to have another long talk with me at the conclave though and was able to give me three pieces of advice. One, she reminded me to keep an eye out for you. Two, that Baskerville could be more than you and Sherlock could handle and three....." Lestrade stopped and put his hand over his eyes, "There was nothing I could do about the Fall. *That* I never understood until the moment I got the call about Sherlock. I don't think I was meant to."

"But now we are left with the results of the Fall in a way never before known. Your Holmes was found in an alternate London, one very far removed in kind from this one. Magic thrives there and science is relatively unknown. He was very ill...Gate sickness." Lyra said grimly.

John felt his stomach fall into a cold pit; he'd seen someone come in with that from...another place. She had been delirious and they had never been able to find out where she came from. They couldn't do anything about her fever or other symptoms and she died during an unstoppable series of seizures. John had never known her name but her face as she died now floated before his eyes, "No." He said, uselessly.

"He is receiving the best care we can give, Doctor.” Stinan somehow had moved so that John could brace himself against the warm, comforting side of Allyrian. John felt the brush of feathers against his face and it startled him out of the haze that had threatened to descend. "His Gate sickness is complicated by his innate inability to comprehend a magical universe but the topmost specialist in the field of handling such cases is most likely even now at his side."

"Why?" John cleared his throat, "why couldn't he and this specialist come here?"

Lyra and Lestrade shared a glance, "Mycroft?" His friend asked the Alfain.

"Exactly." Lyra turned a bit more towards John to explain when a sound penetrated the seeming bubble of isolation that had been around them, the once familiar thumping of helicopter blades. No one had had petrol enough to waste on such vehicles in months.

Lestrade turned fast to Lyra, "No Helicopters here since the Shattering. The Wayfinders?" He said, suddenly taking command.

"No, they were travelling via gate. The agreement called for us to coordinate precisely. It must be a third front!" Lyra ran scrambling up one of the surrounding trees like a squirrel. "Three incoming, "She yelled down, "They are on all three sides."

"Fuck!" Lestrade pushed John back against the troika as the .30 caliber weapons of  American Apache attack copters opened fire, shredding some of the decorations of the troika. They avoided Stinan however, for whatever reason John couldn't figure out. "They're not coming to kill, they're coming to capture." Lestrade assessed the situation quickly.

"Capture? Capture who?" John asked, the sweet thrill of adrenalin running in his veins. He reached for a gun he hadn't carried in months, swearing when he didn't find it.

"You, John. I dunno why they want you, but you are the most important of the four of us. We gotta get you out of here." Lestrade, pulled the door of the enclosed sleigh open without ceremony and pushed the Doctor in. "Lyra, get your ass down here!"

"Here!" John heard a thud; the crazy woman must have made a leap from the tree right onto the troika roof.

Lestrade opened what looked like a small cabinet in the interior of the troika and threw a leather harness with locking carabineers to John. "Strap in, John. This isn't going to be a pleasure ride. "Stinan!" He called through the strangely transparent front of the troika, "Damage?!"

"Deflective shield gone! All the weaponry is in the usual places. Lyra's locked in already." Stinan started making huge sweeps of his wings, pawing at the ground with his hooves. He reared up with a challenging neigh to the men in the helicopters that John felt should ring throughout the park if not the city.

"Right, right." Lestrade muttered and dug into another cabinet to grab a bag of what looked like small copper discs.

"Pennies? Greg what the hell?" John was fastening the harness around himself and locking in to rings set into the panels of the troika.

Lestrade gave him a half crazed smile, "Yeah, they wouldn’t suspect a penny to blow up in their face would they. Old trick. Stinan duck under the bastards and get into the skies!"

John felt a heavy jolt as they were lifted off the ground seemingly by Stinan's wings. He didn't doubt that magic was involved somehow but when the next spray of bullets seemed to slingshot around them to shoot right back at the helicopters he wasn't of a mind to complain about magic. Lestrade grinned at him again, "Lyra's a shield specialist. She can keep three types of shields active at a time....good to have on your side."

"Yes, "John gulped, "God yes. Nice to know we have some advantage."

"Don't get too nervous." Lestrade put a handful of pennies in each pocket, strapped himself into a harness, and opened the door of the troika. "Stinan and I used to win all the reindeer games."

"What?" John asked but his friend had already swung out and up onto the top of the damn troika. "Fucking idiot!" John muttered but then couldn't help himself. He locked on to the rings by the door so he could see out.

"Stinan, I have an idea. Head for the Tower!" Lestrade was yelling as he got himself into a good position. Stinan managed to do a ducking maneuver that had gotten them out of the surround of the three copters. He made a tight circle coming around to the west and making more speed than the copters could manage. Somehow the draft horse sized creature managed to slip like a falcon around the buildings in their way. The machine gun fire behind them never make it close.

Lyra yelled, "Second shield up, full deflective!" As the Allyrian practically tripped over the rooftops he stayed so low. The machines behind them couldn't manage to keep up but they started to get above them. They were still firing but all the bullets ricocheted off a force shield that John couldn't see.

They were close though, close enough for Lestrade to fling a handful of those pennies at them. Three explosions blossomed, causing one of the copters to wobble but recover enough to stay close. "Third shield!" Lestrade ordered.

"Absorption up!" Lyra cried back, John couldn’t see her but she must be somewhere up beside his friend on the flat roof of the troika.

"Dammit Stinan, they are getting too high! Ground!" Lestrade called. He threw five more of the penny missiles. This time the resulting damage caused one of the helicopters to draw back.

"Brace for landing." The resonant voice replied shortly. John took a firm hold of the sides of the door. The sudden drop to the street rattled him. The Allyrian didn't break a stride, galloping through the carriage and car traffic, weaving his way towards the goal Lestrade had set out for them. 

The DI was swearing when he reached over the edge of the troika's roof and grabbed a couple of long spears that had been hidden among the carvings on the side of the vehicle.  John couldn't believe it when Lestrade attached one of the pennies to the point with what looked like chewing gum. John ducked back inside as the troika side swiped a carriage then lifted himself further up to see the man he thought he knew take an expert throwing position on the flat top of the troika. “Come on you bastards!" Lestrade yelled at the pilots of the copters. "Are you hard enough?"

Lyra who had been kneeling with her hands flat on the sleigh roof snapped her head up. "They are targeting us with light!"

"Lasers, make us dark!" Lestrade snapped out to Lyra. "Stinan we need to go back to the crow’s path line, dammit!"

"Right, hold on!" Again the Allyrian and his vehicle ascended into the sky, this time taking a steeper angle. John was grateful for the harness that held him but was impressed that Lestrade managed to keep his throwing stance. As they passed close to one of their pursuers, Lestrade launched the long spear. It hit right in the rotor assembly. The ensuing explosion crippling the copter as the pilot tried to compensate for torque he had lost.

"Invisibility?" Lyra asked.

Shit no," John cried, "They are targeting missiles on us!"

"Light reflection.” Lestrade snapped just before a missile was launched. It went in a straight line over them and then dove in an arc into the nearby Thames. The damaged copter made a bad landing behind them. It seemed vaguely ridiculous that Lestrade spoke calmly into his radio for a security squad to apprehend the pilots and capture their helicopter.

"Almost there!" Stinan cried, "This better be good Greg!"

"It's fantastic Stinan," Lestrade yelled back as Lyra pitched some of the copper missiles at the two remaining pursuers. He was calmly attaching a penny to another spear. "Lyra, shield your radio against a magic surge. I lost a good phone the last time I stepped over the line here."

"What!" John cried, totally confused.

"The Spell of Balance was cast right where the Tower of London stands, John. The abrupt surge in magic will take out any tech not specifically shielded against it. Stinan!" Lestrade ordered with grim satisfaction, "Land right in the courtyard." He threw the spear but it wasn't as lucky a shot as the last one. It still blew near enough to rock the copters in their path.

"Brace!" Stinan called and they bounced on the grass in the courtyard of the Tower.

Lestrade watched in satisfaction as the missiles that had been shot at them simply dropped from the sky right at the curtain wall. The remaining Helicopters couldn't come any closer. "Let's not linger, a'Fellarell." He said with utter calm to Stinan.

"I don't have the coordinates of the enclave we are supposed to go to as yet." Lyra said.

"I don't want to wait do you?" Lestrade shot back.

"I know a place." Stinan said and a mist descended obscuring everything. John had the opposing senses of movement and stillness at the same time. Then they were in a place John had never seen the like of before in his life.

"This isn't London." He said dully.

"And you aren't Toto either, John." Lestrade grinned back at him, looking every inch the triumphant warrior.


	4. Flight to Enclave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade and Company take John somewhere safe only to find it not safe at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay folks, RL got in the way for my Beta and I a bit. And unfortunately it's likely to continue for a while so I can only promise to update once a month at minimum. I hope it will be more but I think i can promise not less. And I would rather jump from a rooftop myself than to give up on this series....so there you are.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks to my wonderful beta who made this chapter about a 100% better!

John heard the echoing drip of water somewhere out in the absolute darkness that surrounded the faint glow of light the carvings on the troika. "Where the hell are we, Greg?" He asked as his friend swung expertly down off the top, using carvings as hand holds.

"Safe, other than that..." Greg looked around, "Stinan you said you knew this place or did you slip?"

The equine flipped his wings to fold against his back, "I am not so clumsy as that. I used this cave when I was negotiating with some local dragons to try to acquire their shape. Never made the shaping work but I'm sure I left of cache of supplies here."

John looked away from where he was unfastening the harness that had kept him in the sleigh on their wild ride. "Didn't we go through a Gate?" John had not had cause to go through one of the magical 'holes' that lead to other worlds, but that's the only thing he knew that could have transported them from London to where ever this cavern was.

"Allyrians do not need Gates, Dr. Watson." Lyra said, descending from the sled somewhat more decorously than Lestrade.

"Allyrians are the most versatile species in the known universe." Stinan chuckled.

"If you do say so yourself." Lestrade shot back at him. John was getting a better idea of Lestrade's friendship with the Allyrian all the time, trying to fit it in with the knowledge that he already had of the man. He had to conclude he had never really known the DI at all; but then again where had there really been room in his life to get close to anyone since the day Sherlock Holmes had deduced his entire life in a lab at Bart's.

"I do say so myself. Grab the harness if you please Greg." Stinan requested, nodding his head impatiently. John expected the silver haired man to start unfastening the harness, but he merely gripped the one strap above the wings. Then the Allyrian's form twisted in a way that made John's eyes ache for a moment and instead of the winged, horned equine there was a black coated wolf standing there. He looked around and from the eyes John knew that it was still Stinan. "We are the Swiss army knife of species; defense, stealth, or transportation, all in a day’s work." The resonant voice was the same, and John couldn't help but grin at a character straight out of a fantasy novel referring to Swiss army knives.

"Stop showing off, you great prat! We need to get to work on reconstructing your defensive shields. Obviously someone thinks they can hold John as a hostage so we are going to need all the advantages we can get." Lestrade pulled the harness up and hung it on a peg at the front of the troika. It looked completely solid from the outside but John could clearly remember being able to see out from the inside. He supposed he'd have to get used to things like that in a universe that held even more magic than he had previously seen. Somehow he couldn't mind. He liked the feeling of security it gave him that people like Stinan and Lyra were taking care of Sherlock. Still he liked it less that this apparently was going to be something of a rest stop.

"We're going to be here for a while then?" He asked, making sure.

Lyra was fiddling with the radio assembly she had been carrying under her cloak. "Indeed, the negotiations were rather delicate and part of the agreement was that you and Mycroft Holmes were to arrive at the enclave where his brother is being treated at the same time."

"So the rumors of a truce?" Lestrade put in.

"Are quite true, which is why we will have to be very careful indeed. Right now almost anything could bring it down."

"Okay, you two, could you please stop the talking around me. If we *have* to kick our heels around before getting to Sherlock I'd really like one of you to slow down and tell me exactly why. Not to mention that although there are loads of John Watsons around; apparently I'm the one someone wants to capture! No matter what Sherlock has led you to believe, Greg, being kept in the dark *really* pisses me off!" John couldn't help himself, the adrenaline surge from the fight hadn't left his system, he punched the side of the sled in frustration.

"Easy John." Lestrade said, he exchanged glances with Lyra. Then he reached underneath the troika to bring out two wooden objects that folded out into benches. "I've had the leisure to study a lot of Quester history so if you sit with me I'll try to explain what I know while these two set up camp. Lyra then can fill in what current events I'm not up on."

John still felt like he wanted to punch something, maybe even Greg because he had kept these secrets so long, but he knew it wouldn't get him one step closer to Sherlock. So he breathed deeply through his nose, exhaled through his mouth and shook his hands out to get rid of the tension before he sat on the bench that faced his friend. "A historian?" He was able to comment calmly. “Not something I ever pictured you doing, Greg.”

Lestrade shrugged expressively "I had time on my hands, at least before Himself breezed into my life, and I made time after. I figured if I couldn’t be out there living like a Quester I might as well learn all there was about us."

John heard some rocks tumbling and saw the great black wolf that was Stinan  uncover a cache over Lestrade's shoulder, "Can you get to the point instead of talking all the way around it. I was a soldier, I'm used to briefings."

Lestrade sighed, "All right, let's see." The silver haired man rubbed his chin and adjusted the grey cloak so that it was more off his shoulders. "It all begins and ends with the Spell of Balance. See, everything that is happening now is what that Spell was trying to prevent. It's the most complex piece of magic ever devised and it had to have living components to stay adjusted to the expanding universes and all the spaces in between."

"Spaces in between?"

"Yeah, that what all the world splinters are floating in now. It's an interdimensional space the Alfain call the Far Lands, although they are called 'Alflands' by some because the Alfain seemed to come from there half the time. Really, eons ago they fled a home world they have no record of to wander those Far Lands for a long time...long enough that there is evidence of them evolving to suit its peculiarities." Greg smiled at Lyra who was striking a spark into the small fire she had set up. "Or maybe they just spread that story to account for their stubborn natures."

"One has to be stubborn to enforce reality by willpower alone, a'Strade. Those that could survived in the Far Lands long enough to have children and hence we evolved." Her voice was still cool but John, his ear tuned to nuances by dealing with how Sherlock could be sometimes, could hear the amusement in her voice.

"Fucking strange to hear someone who looks like an elf talk about evolution." John smiled, relaxing as much as he could.

"Science and magic have never been as mutually exclusive as people of our world tend to think." Lestrade explained, "There are a lot of worlds out there where the potential for science or magic is roughly at the same level, although knowledge of one or the other has usually more developed. On some worlds the two are combined, on the Crown world of the Alfain for instance, magical components are used to fuel technology so as not to pollute the environment. They never quite forget what is to be without a solid world under their feet so they keep their adopted home world as pristine as possible."

"Okay fine. I get that. But this Spell of Balance I don't get. It has *living* components?"

"Anyone who wears the cloaks of the Questers or the marks of the Wayfinders is a part of the Spell." Lyra said as she added bigger pieces to the small flame she had kindled.

"Exactly. We are tiny pieces of the Spell so I'd say that parts of it are still limping along. Sorta like, "Lestrade rubbed his chin meditatively, "a computer that has a virus but isn't completely crashed yet. Spells of any sort need two things; an energy source and a matrix, a structured pattern of thought made into a form." Lestrade gestured to the intricate carvings that glowed softly from the troika, "like the knot work there that we are going to need to replace. They are the matrices of the shield spells that are incorporated into the sled itself. I helped Stinan design some of the carvings and the harness that allows him to transfer more than himself and a rider."

"You forget," Stinan said, padding over, "They only enhance my breedline's natural abilities. The a'Fellarell have always been able to transfer more than their riders."

"And the pride of an Allyrian is in their breedline." Lestrade laughed.

"Naturally." Stinan curled himself up at Greg's feet and John saw Lestrade scratch him behind the ears. It was an odd picture and he couldn’t help grinning at it.

"So you are part of the matrix of this enormous spell." John checked.

"Tiny parts. The main parts of the spell are the two ladies and the two swords. Each embody one of the two opposing forces of the universes; the force of Change or Choice and the force of Order or Stasis. That why it's called the Spell of Balance and why the actions of Wayfinders and Questers are called the War of Balance." As the fire rose Lestrade made a scan of their surroundings. It really was a cavern, the stalagmites and stalactites reflecting various colors as the light of the fire hit them. It was rather surreal but strangely beautiful.

"Does it have to be a war?" John asked mournfully.

"War encompasses every emotion of sentient beings in peacetime and those only associated with battle. So yeah it has to be war. Anyway, those attracted to the Wayfinders don't like that they can't control the choices other people make and Questers love that people make choices. Instant conflict."

"Wanting to control people's choices sounds like Mycroft."

"Too right, that's why I wasn't surprised that we have to be so coordinated about all this. Mycroft is a textbook Wayfinder and Sherlock, with his way of shocking people out of complacency and generally messing about, is a Quester to his bones. That’s why when you told me at first Mycroft had basically set Sherlock up with Moriarty I wasn't really surprised...I was more surprised that they hadn't tried to kill each other when they were kids."

"Okay, I think I'm starting to get some of this. Big spell, lots of universes, and I can definitely believe that there was something a little stronger than sibling rivalry between Sherlock and Mycroft. What you haven't been able to explain to me is how this almighty spell has been broken and why the hell would people want  me as a hostage." John saw with satisfaction that Lyra had dug a kettle out of the seemingly inexhaustible cabinets in the troika, filled it from the tiny spring that was by the cache, and placed it on the fire. He could certainly use a cuppa right now.

"How the Spell got broken?" Lestrade looked down at Stinan, "I've only had rumors come through so far. Can you clear it up, Stin?"

"Yes," the wolf looked at John appraising him, "It might be well that you know. The Lady Arivinna's seclusion failed. The Wayfinders tricked a fian of Questers into hacking the shields protecting her."

"Oh Christ, " Lestrade said and covered his face.

"Yes a'Strade," Lyra said with vast understanding, "Findrel, the Lady of Order herself led the charge. It took them days to get through but by the time they did Arivinna was in the final stages of labor. I have heard the story from her lips personally, and it seems that in the panic and confusion she reached for her sword, the sword of Change, at the exact moment that her Second, Diarmait MacGregor, did. So he was able to grasp it as would not be possible ordinarily. But he could not channel the energy of it in battle with Findrel and the Sword of Order. The swords shattered and so did the Spell."

"The babies?" Lestrade asked in a horror that John himself could feel; although the resignation in his friend's voice disturbed him. Who the hell could attack a woman giving birth? He felt himself hardening to the Wayfinders already.

"Safely born." Stinan said, pressing against Lestrade's leg, "And the only thing that saved our Arivinna. We know Findrel fell into a coma with the fracturing of the Spell, but what mother can ignore the cries of her own newborn babes?"

"And that was 15 years ago for you?" Lestrade asked Lyra and Stinan, "I know times lines flow differently between world splinters."

"More like 20 actually. The twins look about the same as seven year old human children so I think that's closer to the correct timescale. Alfain mature at a third the rate of human children." Stinan thrust his nose under Lestrade's hand, "It's been a long, hard run without you, Greg."

"Right," John, said, "again I'm getting more information than I think I need." He turned to Lyra, "Why would anyone want to capture me? I'm a non-entity in all this."

"Not so. You are the companion of Sherlock Holmes, a Sherlock Holmes that must now learn magic, because he has been exposed to so much he must either learn it or be driven insane. The only way to start that process is to have the one person he  trusts completely by his side as he does it." Lyra said, filling a teapot, "The negotiations went rather fast as soon as he was discovered where he was. The result was that the Wayfinders get access to Mycroft Holmes and the Questers, in the form of Stinan and myself, who were sent to find the John Watson that belonged with this Holmes. Meanwhile, a foremost authority on helping those whose sanity rests on a completely explainable universe will guide them both into accepting the particular logic of Magic. Magic does have its own laws like those of physics but they depend on a different kind of logic and knowledge base." Lyra sighed and started pouring out the tea. When she handed John his cup she looked deeply into his eyes, "A third front, one who would prefer the Shattering be the new status quo, could do worse than to capture you. You are a major playing piece in the tentative truce that has been managed between Quester and Wayfinder."

 "In other words, John, we're in a fuck of a lot of trouble. The best we can do is to get you to where ever Sherlock is. Pretty sure they’ll try to keep him unconscious, but they can only do that so long. "Lestrade said briskly but there was a sympathetic light in his eyes as he stood, "In the meantime what we can do is reweave the troika's reflective shield so we have a decent chance of getting there in one piece."

Stinan also lifted himself to his feet, "Lyra, fresh rations are through the back panel. See if you can cobble something together; we all need refueling after that run to the Tower."

John got up to help the Alfain woman as she opened another of the seemingly inexhaustible cabinets; this one at the tail end of the sled. "Why is it that as soon as you saw Lestrade you let him take over? You must be three times his age at least."

"a'Strade is Stinan's Partner, now that he is released from geas he stands as senior on any mission that Stinan a'Fellarell takes." A slight smile crossed the woman's otherwise solemn face. "I do not mind. I have not been accompanying Stinan long on his quests but long enough to know that he has missed his partner quite dearly."

John gathered a stew pot while Lyra rummaged among what appeared to be some fresh beef, vegetables, even bread. "You always call him a'Strade."

"A mark of respect. Among my people Allyrians are admired, they are a truly remarkable species. If we greatly esteem someone we refer to them with an Allyrian version of their surname. His restraint and patience has earned him that respect with many Questers, we all tend towards impatience, so his ability to just wait until the right moment is something of a favorite story among us."

"So Lestrade becomes a'Strade, I see. " John followed her back to the fire with an armload of supplies. "I'm really trying to keep this together. After months of hearing and knowing nothing now it feels like my own personal world has been shattered now I need to learn all this information before I am allowed to see my friend."

"Truly John, if we could we would have you at his side even now." The Alfain bent over some vegetables, cutting them finely, " I saw him before we were sent" she said in a low voice, "He calls for you, he seems to think that he is drugged or has drugged himself, so he calls to you and begs your forgiveness. Sometimes it even seems as if you are speaking and he is answering you. Forgive me John Watson, but that is when I have seen his tears."

John drew in a ragged breath, "My forgiveness? And somewhere in his mind I'm what? Berating him?" The hurt deep within magnified at Lyra's hesitant nod. The Sherlock Holmes John knew had always been convinced he knew the best answer to everything. He'd never ask for forgiveness much less beg for it. "Ah yeah....what should I do with this stuff?" He said after clearing his throat roughly; deflecting from a subject he just couldn't handle right now.

"Separate some of the beef out for Stinan to eat in his present form. Protein contains more concentrated energy than grains so he'll be eating in wolf form. The rest....have you ever made a campfire meal?"

"No, we always had Compos in the field. I never had much of a chance to learn how to cook in the field much. But I can keep the kettle heated."

"That is well, hot water is always welcome. We don't have time for a stew but I can make an approximation of what you might call a stir fry. Stinan and I have been on the trail for quite a while now so I've become practiced at quick meals." The woman's eyes were sympathetic but John couldn't face it. Somewhere out there Sherlock was so broken, in such a delirium that he was begging John's forgiveness. Somehow the wail he woke up to that morning which seemed so long ago passed through his mind. He repressed a shudder. Occasionally he had wished that the massive intellect that was Sherlock Holmes would be taken down a peg by someone or something; but this was too much, much too much.

John wandered over to where Lestrade had set up with some half-finished carved boards and squatted down to watch as the DI widened some cuts and made new ones; all the time discussing with Stinan their effectiveness. He needed a distraction from the images that Lyra had awakened in his mind. "So this is a spell then?" He said as he handed a warm cup to Lestrade.

"The matrix at any rate John." Lestrade kept his eyes down on his carving but John could hear a slight shake in his voice. Greg must have heard what Lyra said of Sherlock and was almost as thrown by the imagery.

"Still don't quite understand how this matrix stuff works." John took a sip of his own tea, concentrating on what was at hand. It was all he could do.

"Symbolism, John," Stinan put in, regarding from various angles another carved piece that lay on the ground. "When I look at these symbols it reminds my subconscious of what I'm trying to make the spell do. So as I feed energy into it that 'teaches' the energy to take the shape I will it to. Also every time I look at them it teaches it a bit more. Plus I add in energy between missions." Stinan tilted his head a bit, " I think Lyra is right, Greg, if we repeat the pattern smaller but in multiples it will be less likely that one attack can take out the whole shield like it did."

"Live and learn, mate, must have been nice to travel with a shield specialist for a while." Lestrade whittled off one rounded piece of carving that reminded John of a St Brigid's cross that he had seen once. "Here," he said, trimming a last bit off, "use this to show John what we mean."

"It's not going to be like fireworks Greg."

"John's perceptive enough to see something happen under his nose." Lestrade grinned, if with still a bit of strain to it, "Anyway, you love to strut your stuff."

Stinan let out an explosive snort. "You are getting far more mileage out of that than I should allow you."

"It's been 10 years since I saw you, Partner, indulge me." Lestrade laughed and John couldn't begrudge his friends good cheer. It was rather obvious that the two were extremely good friends and theirs had been a long separation indeed. Longer if not as tragic as John’s separation from Sherlock. He longed with sudden intensity to learn all the parts of Lestrade that had never been visible before the Fall. He realized that he had only ever seen half of the person that Lestrade was, almost a cardboard cutout, a long suffering side show to the main attraction that was Sherlock Holmes. But this man, calmly carving something that would become _magic,_ while joking with a creature that was an equine, a wolf, and God knows what else was an entire person and utterly confident in what he knew.

"All right, I'll make it visible for the inestimable Dr. Watson." Stinan let out something that was halfway between a bark and a laugh. Then taking the piece of carving from Lestrade's hands, held it carefully in his jaws.

He moved slowly away from where Greg started to refine another carving and lay the Brigid's cross upon a convenient flat topped rock. "There," he said, as he observed the saliva covered surface of the carving, "the convenience of this form is that by placing it I give the carving some of my substance merely by carrying it. That sets a resonance up between us and makes it easier to channel the energy into it."

"The....drool?" John asked incredulously.

"Indeed," Stinan sent him an amused look, "easier than to blood it, although I may do that to some of the other carvings. Still without an energy source this would remain but a fairly attractive bit of carving. There are three kinds of energy sources I could draw on to make it more; Planetary, Celestial, or Dimensional. When we have leisure I will probably be able to explain the differences but suffice it to say for many reasons it is wisest to use dimensional energy. I will attempt to make the 'draw' visible to you."

"All right." John couldn't say much more than that. He tried to put into his tone that he was grateful to the Allyrian for explaining things in technical terms. It made him more relaxed with the very idea of magic. He watched as the wolf lay down and put his nose to the carving with a huffed out breath. Then from the thin air there appeared what looked to be little drifts of mist. Slowly they coalesced into a steady stream that centered itself on Stinan, the colorless vapor masking his form a bit as it grew heavier. Just when John thought he was about to lose sight of the Allyrian completely it sank into a violet glowing ball on the tip of Stinan's nose. He huffed again. The ball became a beam that slowly sank into the carving until it glowed like metal heated in a fire. Brighter and brighter it grew until John was surprised by the thump of the shapechangers tail; once, twice, a third time and all the energy sank right into the wood to be absorbed.

"Hmm," John cleared his throat, trying to get his scrambled thoughts together. "I...well I assume that was what was supposed to happen."

Stinan chuckled roughly, a bit hoarse, "Very much so. But I think I'll need a bite and a drink before I attempt much more. This is the most important piece anyway. All else will be more reinforcement and back up than anything else. Carry it to the fire, please, John. I'd like Lyra to check my work."

"Yeah, all right." John gingerly picked up the carving. It wasn't wet with wolf drool anymore, but he could feel it vibrating slightly in his hand, much like a small electric motor would. It made his fingers tingle but he was able to carry it easily enough to where Lyra was dishing out food from a wok shaped pan onto three plates. In another area at the fire was a pile of fresh shredded meat and what looked to be like a bowl of milky tea. John blinked at that; it was hard to imagine a wolf drinking tea, but then it couldn't be stranger than anything else that had happened today.

"My thanks Lyra, when you have a moment will you check the central control matrix? I think it will allow us to shield from more energies at once." Stinan gulped up the meat just as a hungry canine would, downing it in a minute or two. And began lapping at the bowl of tea.

"Dinner first, Stinan, your Partner and his friend have been through much today. Let us not forget sacred hospitality." Lyra said calmly, setting out bottles of what looked like soy sauce and other condiments.

"Ah yes, even in the middle of a disaster we must not forget the civilities." Stinan drawled.

"You have perhaps spent far too much time among humans." John was stung for a moment until he saw the curl of a smile on the Alfain's face and realized they were trying to diffuse John and Greg's tension with humor.

"Humans know enough about hospitality to always have something to drink in the house." Lestrade approached the fire, a weary grin on his face.

"Barely sufficient, a'Strade." Lyra sniffed in mock derision as she handed a full plate to John. It looked a lot like what he was used to as stir-fry, but instead of rice there was a couple of slices of some kind of bread on the side. He bit into it to find it was rich with grains, nuts, and a slight tang like some sourdough bread he had had once on leave.

"I dunno, it usually works with us." Lestrade sat and accept a plate of his own from the woman. "Sometimes the best hospitality is liquid."  He said as he chewed.

Lyra's voice took on a slightly scolding tone, "Meat and bread, salt and drink, welcomes friends to hearth and home. Gregory Lestrade Quester of the Fianna of Marathon."

"Cheers Lyra, I thank you for your welcome to the hearth." Both grinned at each other and John couldn't help a snort of amusement. He knew they weren't really taking this seriously but he felt they were trying to distract him and he appreciated it.

They all fell to eating and John was surprised at how good the food was. He hadn't ever associated being in the field with a feast but what he was eating was better than you could get in most restaurants even before the Shattering. Lyra noticed his appreciation and smiled; it made him feel more comfortable with her. Good food seemed to still be a common unifying factor in the cosmos, just by eating at this fire he felt closer to two people who were of a kind he once would have thought only existed in the pages of a book.

Lestrade finished his meal quicker than John and with Stinan went to rummage around in the troika. John snorted in surprise when the cop managed to bring a set of boiled leather armor out of what looked like a tiny cubby hole, "You're going to tell me that the cabinets are bigger on the inside?" He asked, amusement filling him for a moment.

Lestrade snorted, "Too right, when Stinan and I designed this thing we wanted to assume we would have to live out of it if necessary." Greg grunted as he reached to fasten a shoulder buckle, "What do you know, it still fits." He said, shrugging his shoulders, apparently to settle it. By then John was hardly surprised when he buckled a long sword over it. "Stin, do you have anything for John? I don't like the idea of him being unarmed."

Stinan had somehow scrambled up onto a ledge that could pass as a driver’s bench and looked to be nosing around into the interior. "What blade does he use?" He asked absently.

"John, you‘ve training with a knife?" Lestrade asked.

"Yeah....yeah, some in basic. I'm better with a gun though."

"Know that." Lestrade grinned at him as for a moment they both shared the memory of when John had first joined Sherlock on a case. "Still, gunpowder doesn't work everywhere and in the wide universe Questers tend to prefer blades. It's easier to know exactly who is on the end of your blade but," Lestrade looked over to the Allyrian, "Stinan, you haven't been able to work a bit more on those prototypes have you?"

"What's this a'Strade?" Lyra asked from the fire.

"Something you aren't supposed to know about Lyra. Sometimes in my world a gun, even if it looks a bit strange, is easier to explain than pulling a bloody long sword out of my pocket. Stinan and I were about to test some prototypes when we lost contact." He turned to the Alfain, "Don't frown, wouldn't you rather John Watson had a weapon he was more familiar with?"

"Yeah...okay, I am totally not getting why this is an argument." John said. "And for the record I would like something I know how to use better than a knife."

"Sorry John, cultural bias, Alfain consider a gun to be for the lazy." He faced Lyra again, "Even Questers. But if you don't mind I'd like a better chance of getting us all to the enclave intact. Stinan, what have you got?" The cop who looked closer to someone trying to costume himself as a roman centurion , leaped up beside Stinan.

"My apologies, Doctor, " Lyra was actually blushing, "it was not my intent to give offence."

"Actually, Lyra I didn't even realize you were insulting me so it's fine. Still I am much better with a gun than I am with a knife, and I do feel a little exposed without a weapon I understand."

"Of course." Still Lyra looked slightly scandalized.

Greg pulled out two wrapped objects and brought them back to where John was sitting by the fire. They turned out to be a pistol that looked like it was carved from some reddish brown stone and a rifle that was made of sapphire.

"How are these supposed to be useful, Greg?" John asked, not really all that surprised anymore.

"They use a magic burst as a propellant." Lestrade explained, handing the pistol and its accompanying magazine to John. They fitted together in a way that John was familiar with and he was able to load and arm it without thinking.

"And the crystalline structure of the carborundum family allows to contain and direct the magic better than any metal." Stinan added, padding over to join them, "I haven't had any success in making them variable between projectile and pure energy bursts but these should be adequate for now."

John inspected the pistol thoroughly and the rifle, "As long as they work like they look it shouldn’t be a problem."

"Good enough for now." Lestrade concluded, "No place here to make any targeting shots without risking a ricochet; so why don't you take a watch while the rest of us get the set shields into some kind of order. Then after some rest we can try to find the coordinates for where we are supposed to go."

John nodded slightly and turned resolutely away from the fire to maximize his night vision. Everything in him wanted to run in whatever direction would bring him to Sherlock's sick bed. He simply didn't have a direction or anyway to really run on his own. So he subdued his panicky impatience and set himself to guard those who could get him where his heart had run on ahead.

**********

After a few hours Lestrade relieved John from his guard post and insisted that he settle inside the troika. John noticed had now been fitted out with wheels to act more like a carriage. John didn't put up much of a fight since he knew that he was the least knowledgeable and the most vulnerable of them. He merely asked for and got a maintenance kit for the pistol and rifle. Then settling inside the carriage, that he finally noticed was quite comfortably upholstered, he disassembled the two weapons and began cleaning them. They really were much like he was used to carrying in the field, although he didn’t look too closely at the magazines. The knowledge that they were prototypes made him a bit nervous, but he felt a bit better with them on hand rather than just relying on the hunting knife Lestrade had  furnished him.

He stretched on the bench that converted into a bed and tried to make some sense out of all that had happened in the past day, thinking it might help him get some rest. However, as soon as he tried to settle his mind, all he could think of was what Lyra had told him of Sherlock. He could almost see the man in his mind's eye, fevered, confused, and muttering in broken phrases; some of them deductions but some of them a plaintive cry for John to be there, to forgive for.... something. Again he felt the wail that had awakened him that morning in 221B ring through his mind, and he groaned quietly. At the time he had rejected the idea of Sherlock crying out to him in panicked despair but now he felt that it might have been closer to the truth than he had guessed.

His thoughts went back to the night in a Dartmoor inn when Sherlock had trembled and lashed out in what he now realized was a full blown panic attack. The detective had doubted his senses then for one night and it had been the worse part of the drug for Sherlock. Now, with the universe containing so much more than a scientifically trained mind could comprehend all John could contemplate was exactly how long it had been since Sherlock had been able to trust the senses that he had honed to such a fine degree. He clenched his jaw to hold in the pain he felt and the fear that his friend might even now be on the edge of madness. Could he save Sherlock as they seemed to think? He desperately hoped so. So often he had been able to settle Sherlock when that great mind had been obviously trying to tear itself to pieces. 'But you aren’t going to be able to do anything for him if you are dead on your feet. Get some sleep Watson.' He sternly thought and willed himself into the kind of light doze that had often been his habit while in Afghanistan.

Fortunately, his caution had been unnecessary and he woke to Lestrade handing him a cup of strong coffee. They had a hasty breakfast and then John and Lestrade kept an eye out as the others meticulously cleaned up the fire and replaced supplies in the cache. "They are very careful about cleaning up, aren’t they?" John said to his friend.

"Bit of cultural training and a part of what they are. What I'll be probably be now that I have the chance." Lestrade was wiping oil from the long sword blade he had been sharpening. "It's the job of couriers to get people to the places that they are needed quick while leaving as little trace as possible."

"Hmmm, is that why the a...Fianna of Marathon thing." John asked sipping from the last mug of coffee that he'd managed to grab before the cooking area was broken down.

"Yes," Lestrade grinned, "A group of Questers who commonly work together is called a fian, a group of fians that take similar missions is a Fianna. The Fianna of Marathon tend to be made of those who like courier jobs. I've been an auxiliary because I was waiting for Sherlock and you, And Stinan and I might change jobs now but..." Lestrade might have continued to explain, but John was distracted by a soft, skittering type of sound that came from behind the carriage. For a second he thought it was just him but then he saw Stinan's nose come up and the canine shaped Allyrian started to sniff the still air of the cavern.

John grabbed Lestrade and backed them both into the side of the carriage, getting his rifle into position. "Can you hear it?" He asked Greg.

"Didn't hear a thing." Lestrade immediately looked towards his Partner whose hackles had risen. "What the hell?"

John heard the skittering get closer to the other side of the carriage so he slid around the front of vehicle and spied an enormous spider. It was huge, the top of its carapace well above John's head. Fortunately his combat training snapped into place and he immediately took aim and fired, hitting the head and dropping it instantly. From behind him he heard a bolt or small arrow clatter into the protected side of the carriage, but he was suddenly far more concerned with the arrow that had come from somewhere behind the spider he'd just shot. It lodged deep into the meat of his shoulder, right next to where a bullet had taken him so long ago in Afghanistan. "Fuck," he hissed through clenched teeth.

Lestrade moved closer to him, using a round shield to cover John’s back. A murmuring that had been just below hearing level rose around them to a strident conclusion and the DI started swearing sulferously. "Stinan, this safe refuge of yours has got a Drider problem!" He called to his Partner.

"Don’t you mean spider?" John gasped as Lestrade unceremoniously ripped the arrow out of his shoulder, it was bleeding but not bad, they could tend it later.

"Spiders don’t shoot crossbow bolts, but driders that are half spider, half dark elf do." Lestrade looked all around, keeping his shield up. "We need to get rid of them or get out of here fast and this place isn't big enough for Stinan to get air room."

Just as Lestrade said that, Stinan ran towards them flat out. He leaped high taking the winged unicorn shape as he landed on the carriage top. He reared up on his hind legs, his wings and front hooves raking the air as he trumpeted a Stallion’s challenge to the darkness and the enemies it contained. It didn't seem to make a difference, but it allowed Lyra time to run between two other spiders and slam into the back of the carriage they were all grouped around.

"Dammit, Greg, don’t we have any flares or something. I need light to shoot!" John tried to penetrate the darkness as he heard Stinan grunt and squeal from invisible blows.

John got some sense of where one of the driders was and tried to shoot, only to have the rifle jam. "Shit!" He said, blessing his foresight at examining his weapons, he'd be able to clear it in a moment. He heard a thud and noticed that Lyra had done something that threw the spider pursuing her ten feet back. Another was cautiously approaching him and Lestrade, but John trusted his friend enough to guard his back. After all, he was carrying a shield that covered him from shoulder to knee.

Above them John heard Stinan's voice ring out in another strident call. Suddenly the whole cavern was alight, not strong enough to blind him, strong enough to see the things Greg had called driders. From the waist down they looked like versions of the spiders that were closing on them, but above they were misshapen versions of elflike creatures with skins of ebony and slicked back white hair. John thought he saw the gleam of fangs as well. The one he face fitted another bolt into its crossbow. "Holy buggering fuck." He said, his voice choked.

"John, just eliminate them fast and the spiders will leave us alone." Lestrade's voice was more stressed than could be accounted for by combat. Then he called up to the Allyrian, "Goddam it, Stinan, just hit the fuckers!" There was fear in the Lestrade's voice.

The spider behind them closed with Lestrade but couldn’t get a bite over his shield.   He stayed determinedly at John's back. A moment later, Stinan squealed and jumped down, just barely hitting the spider who staggered. Stinan must have shaped again. The ebony wings on his shoulders were gone but his hooves and horn glowed electric blue. Lestrade, taking advantage of the spider’s distraction took its head off with one swipe of his blade.

John turned his attention to the drider that was dodging behind a curtain of webbing. The whole cavern was now strewn with webs, even in places that had looked clear in the fire last night. Whatever these things were they must have been planning this attack half the night. John growled under his breath and squeezed out two shots, grinning in grim satisfaction when he saw that the second shot took the thing down. At the same time the light went out and another of the driders appeared close enough to John to hit him with a slime covered blade. John instinctively blocked with the rifle. It backed away from Lestrade's fierce follow up attack. John staggered back as the arm below the bolt wound went numb. He realized why Lestrade had ripped the arrow out so suddenly; it was poisoned!

Stinan charged the drider, missing narrowly. Then turning to batter it with his hooves. Lestrade closed in a perfectly coordinated maneuver and managed to get in a solid hit. John tried to reach for his shoulder but the numbness had started to race through his veins. He could barely feel his arm. His legs suddenly collapsed underneath him. His breath started to labor as he fumbled the pistol into his hand. Taking a desperate chance fired over Lestrade's head and straight into the fanged face that leered over his friends.

He barely felt Lestrade pick him up and bodily shove him into the carriage. The words he was shouting at Stinan and Lyra becoming a meaningless roar as John struggled to make his lungs take in air. 'A paralytic' he realized, his thoughts going fuzzy with oxygen deprivation.

"Lyra, send the Pythia code and tell them we are coming in whether they like it or not!" Lestrade yelled. In his mind's eye John saw Sherlock beckoning to him but as much as he reached, a black tar wrapped itself around John's chest and he ceased to fight, falling into its clinging embrace.


	5. Rebuilding the Mind Palace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His mind Palace in ruins, Sherlock Holmes must find his way back to himself....and the most important person in his universe. Another Doctor helps him a bit along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the wonderful Galitori for an excellent beta. All other mistakes are most definitely mine.

Sherlock dwelt in nothingness; the fragments of his Mind Palace floating around the center of his consciousness, forming and dissolving while he frantically grasped at anything that would allow him to make sense of the whole. A soft voice wove around him and he struggled to grasp at it but the words were unintelligible. Again he felt an all-encompassing panic rise and threaten to consume him.

 

"Sherlock, what a mess!" he heard Mrs. Hudson's voice call behind his left shoulder and he somehow turned towards it. The familiar interior of 221B Baker Street formed around him and Mrs. Hudson was there, standing over the kitchen table strewn with bits and pieces of experimental detritus. 

 

Sherlock spun, not sure how he had got there, "This...isn't real."

 

"Dear, you know what this is and why there's all this mess." Mrs. Hudson bustled around the kitchen, switching the kettle on and readying the teapot. "Really, it's time for you to do something about it, don't you think?"

 

"I quite agree, Mrs. Hudson." Mycroft said from beside a window, "it’s utter chaos out there." Sherlock looked out the window and saw the formlessness that his Mind Palace had disintegrated to.

 

"But why....why would this place reform first?" Sherlock asked Mycroft.

 

"It is always sensible to start where one began, is it not?" Mycroft kept his gaze focused out the window.

 

"I did not begin here!"

 

"Do you really think that is precisely accurate, little brother?" Mycroft said in his most condescending tone and pointed his umbrella tip to the sitting room door, on the stairs Sherlock could hear the cadence of a familiar tread.  John. "It would seem to me that everything you are now began entirely in this flat."

 

Sherlock moved to the door, eager to see John Watson even if he was only the memories of the man that had haunted Sherlock since the day he had leapt off the roof of Bart's Hospital. Unfortunately, before he could cross the room, Molly Hooper was gently closing the door. "Sherlock, you know you can't see him yet." She said with a hint of command, "If you dwell, you will fail and John will die."

 

Sherlock reeled back from the pathologist, her words bringing recent memories into focus, "I... I failed already. I'm drugged...or I've taken drugs." The knowledge took him to his knees, "None of this is real!" He shouted, bending over and supporting himself on his clenched fists. The agony of his helplessness sliced through his guts, a dull knife that threatened to cut off his breath. 

 

"And when have we been overly concerned with reality in our Mind Palaces Sherlock?" Mycroft chided, turning from the window with his air of superiority always intact, even as his brother choked off sobs which permeated the air of the flat. "Whatever you are feeling is only part of a purely mental construction used to organize information in such a way as to be more easily accessible. You have started with what is most important, but are you so behind that you cannot go on from this little womb you've created for yourself? Can you not even deal with your own pain brother?"

 

"This is not what's most important!" Sherlock used his sudden surge of anger to bring himself back up off the floor and sneer at his mental copy of Mycroft Holmes, the pain once again repressed. "This is just a place, convenient but no more."

 

Mycroft sighed, "Such a disappointment. Listen, brother." Sherlock again heard the sound of John's footsteps, this time above him from the second bedroom. Sherlock had never told the man that he could hear every sound the man made in the depth of the night. That often the early morning violin solos were because he had heard John shift restlessly in bed from a nightmare. Or that he had recorded John's more private moments in his most carefully guarded vaults only to replay them as he caressed himself, imagining that the doctor's hands were upon him. Mycroft's sharp tone cut through those memories, "I've told you again and again, Sherlock, caring is not an advantage. These  feelings ," he sneered, "will be no use to you now."

 

"For shame Mycroft Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson scolded, "sometimes caring is all we have."

 

"Now Mrs. Hudson, you know you never said that." Mycroft was right; Mrs. Hudson has said something similar but about family. Something wasn't right here. He spun around, cataloging his memories of 221B, and found the thing out of place. There, hiding in the shadow of John's chair, was a vague figure. It was woman-shaped, but most of her form was entirely masked by a cloak. Only her hands could be seen, pulling wisps of  something from a distaff and spinning them on to a hand spindle that was almost filled with grey thread.

 

"What are you?" He asked, huskily, he felt the words scrape his throat.

 

"An aspect of Fate perhaps?" A smooth feminine voice seemed to emerge from the very walls.

 

"How very pedestrian." Mycroft said, stepping directly in front of Sherlock, "even Jungian. I would have thought you could do so much better than that, Sherlock. Can you not find even a bit of rationality to cling to?"

 

"Always telling me what to do." Sherlock growled back.

 

"You chose me to be here." Mycroft, staring down that pointed nose at him, "You must have had a reason."

 

"Probably because you are the only one I know that's better at being a cold hearted bastard then myself." He snarled directly in the always calm, cool face of the brother who had never been able to accept him as he was.

 

"Good Sherlock,” Mycroft tapped his own nose with the handle of his umbrella, "Now you are making progress. And what follows that deduction, brother mine?"

 

"That you are the part of my mind that is logical and deductive." Sherlock felt himself falling into the familiar mindset of deducing his environment.

 

"Even better; now, can you remember what the first rule of deduction is? Its phrasing was your own construction as I recall."

 

"When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, is the truth."

 

" Very good, now shall we begin with the case of the missing detective?"

 

"I'm not  missing Mycroft!"

 

"Are you not? Then why are we here and why is it like that out there?" Mycroft pointed his umbrella towards the windows that were still shrouded by shadows and mist. "It seems to me that my little brother is here but the consulting detective is out there," he gestured to the windows, "waiting to be found."

 

Sherlock turned around, but the scene had shifted to another, horribly familiar. It was the sidewalk in front of Bart's hospital, and he was holding a phone to his ear. "Sherlock... turn around and go back the way you came. Just do it...please!" John was saying to him in a broken voice.

 

"John, no, this isn't....this isn't how it happened."

 

"This is much sexier though, and closer to the truth, wouldn't you say?" said a hated voice. Sherlock spun around and saw Jim Moriarty. Usually Sherlock kept his memories of the consultant criminal locked deep in the dungeon of his mind, but there he was in a neat Westwood suit, leaning back against a the side of a building and smiling up at the lonely figure perched on the edge of the roof. Sherlock could feel a scream of rage and fear rise in his throat. "It was Johnny-boy that was your tipping point... all you've done... the murders....and the torture....everything happened because I put him," Jim grinned up into the sun, "on the edge of a Fall. I knew your pressure points, my dear, and I played them, " Moriarty closed his eyes and smiled, blissful, into the sky. “Just like the Partita, not a note dropped.... perfect."

 

Sherlock still had the phone pressed to his ear unconsciously. "I...I...I can't come down so we'll... we'll have to do it like this." John's voice was broken and gasping.

 

"No John, no, "Sherlock said urgently, "You can't do this! There's a trick, a magic trick, and you don't know it!"

 

"Of course not!" Moriarty roared then sauntered over, until he could whisper in Sherlock's ear, "I really should have done it this way, made him jump for you. There would have been no way out for you then. Your heart would have burned, bled away into the pavements, and all that would have been left," his lips stretched in a filthy grin, "would have been me."

 

Sherlock's chest ached as he tried to get air in his lungs, the whole scene swirling around him. "No, not you!" He yelled defiantly, "I may not be an angel, but I will never be you. Not as long as John Watson breathes."

 

"And how do you know he does, sexy?" Moriarty ran a hand through Sherlock's hair, "Do you even remember the last time you had any news from brother dear?"

 

Sherlock flinched away from the unwanted caress. Where was Mycroft; he had been beside him a moment ago. His eyes went back up to the roof, a hand reaching towards John, as if he could catch him. He opened his mouth for a broken grasp of air, animal moans rising from his throat as the panic consumed him.

 

The sharp voice of an old woman penetrated his daze, "Perhaps, Seamus, but how would you know?" Sherlock turned and he was by a stream where an old, bent woman was kneeling at the water’s edge washing the very clothes that Jim Moriarty had worn that day. Rivulets of red running from them into the water.

 

"No!" All of the suave confidence that Moriarty usually oozed was gone and instead of the neat suit he was wrapped in a filth-stained straight jacket; his hair and face greasy with neglect. "I won! I won all the time. Everyone he cares about thinks he's dead." He turned to Sherlock and they were in the padded room that Sherlock had imprisoned the part of him that was all too much like Moriarty. "And you're lost...lost..." he giggled shrilly, "By the time you get back John Watson won't even remember why he was ever friends with a sociopath."

 

"Perhaps..." Sherlock gulped then used his rage to swallow the fear. Again he fastened a heavy chain to the straight jacket and kicked the door of the chamber open. "But you'll never be around to find out.... dear... Jim!" He said, grim as death, as he closed the door and fastened the locks.

 

"Astounding." Mycroft's cool voice made him refocus on the neat and trim figure of his brother. "That man embodies all of your fears so you summon a figure of doom to relegate it all to a locked away cupboard. But how did the fear get out in the first place? You were quite, quite focused on your mission; what changed?"

 

"I don't....I don't know." Sherlock gasped. "I don't remember."

 

"Really, little brother, you know that's not true." Mycroft brought out a pocket watch and studied the face of it. "As much as you talk of deleting things you do know that nothing is ever truly forgotten."

 

"But everything....the Mind Palace is all gone." Sherlock swept his hands over the walls frantically. There seemed to be no way out of the bare room with the muffled sound of Moriarty's animal screams echoing through it.

 

"You just need to start at the point where things went wrong." Molly Hooper said, carrying her clipboard with her as she stepped through a doorway that hadn't been there a moment ago. "It's like any other experiment that has unexpected results." She held the clipboard out to him, "You look through your notes to see what's out of place."

 

Sherlock nodded, open mouthed, and reached for the clipboard. On it were two words  The Storm.

 

Sherlock ran through a small Italian village, the terracotta roofs lashed by sheets of rain and hail. He had been able to eliminate one target here, but he'd been seen and there was nowhere to hide in such an isolated place. The lower slopes of the forested mountain that the village was built on was his only hope. He ran and ran, blinded by the stinging wind and rain, until he collapsed under a newly fallen tree.

 

When he woke there were soft voices all around, speaking in Latin and Ancient Greek. He could make out some of what they said.

 

"A mortal here?" Asked one voice that sounded like birdsong.

"Perhaps he knows why the world is Shattered?" Said another, his voice deep and gravelly. “It has been long and long since a mortal ventured to our shrine, but they always were at the center of disasters."

 

"Did he claim shelter or did you just carry him here yourselves?" This voice cracked and snapped.

 

"Our protection is for the entire mountain, or what is left of it." The birdsong voice scolded. "Otherwise why should my people be any part of the Compact?"

 

"Still,” the gravelly voice stated, pulling at Sherlock sodden garments, "this one doesn't dress like any mortals I remember."

 

"Stop!" Sherlock smacked the hand on his body away. He scrambled back and looked around him; he was in a glade with a rough stone fire pit in the center, the grass mown down to velvet smoothness. To his disbelieving eyes, there was a  face in the midst of the fire, a slender woman shaped creature clothed only in a few filmy veils hovered nearby, and something that looked like a dwarf made of stone which held the scrap of clothing that had torn as Sherlock tried to escape. "Don't touch me!" He shouted, his eyes seeking to make sense of the scene.

 

"Peace, mortal.” Another voice, young and clear and full of mirth sounded from the darkness under the trees. A young man, dressed in nothing but green leaves and with a grapevine twined among auburn curls stepped out from the shadow of the forest. "Why should such as we harm such as you?"

 

"Because you can!" Sherlock snarled and reached for the gun that was in coat. He pointed it at the only one of the group that looked human.

 

"You are very young, mortal, and very unwise." The shadows under the trees seemed to stretch and gather at the man's feet.

 

"Perhaps, but I'm the one with the bullets." Sherlock squeezed off a shot at the man's feet.

 

"In retrospect, not your finest hour,” Mycroft murmured, and suddenly Sherlock was watching himself point the gun as the shadows gathered around the 'man'. They swarmed up like bees to the honeycomb and clothed the figure in shadows. His eyes turning from a bright, clear green to a burning red.

 

Then he was back behind his own eyes as he fired at the shadow shrouded figure, its eyes starting to glow brighter than the fire, its face becoming inhuman. Thick ram's horns sprouted from its head and his lips split in the cruelest of grins. "You spurn our hospitality and attack us at our own shrine?" The bright voice was replaced with an animal growl. "Do you not know that I am in the darkest places of the mortal mind? Ever waiting for one such as you to place yourself in my thrall?"

 

Sherlock sprang to his feet and fired again and again at the  thing  in front of him. "I am no one's thrall!" He shouted defiantly.

 

He was answered with a deep, mocking laughter, "Humanity was mine before they left painting on the walls of caves." The bullets had made absolutely no impact. "You spurn the hospitality of Robin Goodfellow so let Pan of the Screams be your fate." Ram horned and goat hooved, the very face of fear lifted its voice to the sky and howled in triumph. "It has been an age since I hunted." It laughed roughly, licking its lips in anticipation of blood.

 

Sherlock felt the horror pound in his veins. The gun dropped from his hand and his legs trembled with the need to run, but something still held him fast. He gasped for air that simply would not come. Instead the image of all that humans had feared in the dark held him fast and laughed at his trembling for an eternity, savoring it, and then finally releasing him. "Run, rabbit, run!"

 

Sherlock turned unseeing, but he abruptly was standing in a stream, the water washing him in warm waves of calm. He turned and a female clothed in nothing but water weeds and lotus flowers knelt at the feet of the thing he had fled. "Lord," she said, her voice the gurgling of water over stones, "I beg for your indulgence. His insult was born of ignorance and a fight waged too long alone."

 

"Lady," the thing growled, "he acted as one who spits in the face of courtesy. Why should I not keep my rightful quarry?"

 

"Because I would claim him as one of my own. If courtesy need be learned, I will teach it to him." 

 

"This....isn't how it happened?" Sherlock said, even as he felt the waves of sheer terror that had been his existence wash away with the water of the stream. He watched the water woman talk to the thing that was again reforming himself into a young man clad in green.

 

"But it is a good analogy." Mycroft said from the bank of the stream. "And can you truly class it impossible? Or is it merely something you had not expected to experience?"

 

"I....I don't know. It's like something out of the old myths you used to read to me." Sherlock was finally able to view things from an almost serene mindset. "This could just be an analogy for losing my mind." He looked down at the stream still washing up to his knees, "And regaining it."

 

"I think that's all you need right now Sherlock." Molly said, appearing beside Mycroft. "Now you can rebuild without fear infecting everything."

 

"Quite right, Miss Hooper, quite right." Mycroft quirked his lips in a tiny smile. "Shall we move forward then? Going back will serve nothing."

 

Sherlock nodded and put the water woman and the face of terror to his back as he crossed the waters. It was time to make his way back to himself.

 

He found himself walking up the stairs of the building in Lauriston Gardens where he had first shown John what his work was about. This place had become familiar as his way of tracing a path between one memory image to another, the memories of the building inextricable with his memories of John. He could not pinpoint when exactly this had become part of his central control structure; but its reappearance sent a warm wave of relief through him. And with it, just on the edge of perception, he could smell wool jumper, trace of antiseptic, tea, and all the components that made a unique individual...John.

 

But frustratingly, it was Mycroft who awaited him on the next landing. "Why couldn't you be John?" He asked, his voice still rough from the fear that had dominated him. "Why is John never  here ?" He asked desperately.

 

Mycroft sighed in disappointment. "Perhaps I should send you back to school brother. The center of your consciousness is 221B Baker Street, your control structure has become the building in which you first got a hint of how important he would be to your life." Mycroft smiled, not with smugness this time but with an almost forgotten expression: affection. "His scent permeates the very air of your Palace. You never see him because he is not part of the Mind Palace; he is the very foundation on which it is based."

 

"Sentiment."

 

"Correct," Mycroft sighed, "but also stability. A house built upon a rock rather than on sand. A tradeoff I grant you, but not an invaluable one."

 

Sherlock sighed, not quite willing to agree or disagree, but the landing ahead was now blocked by a wall with a single door in it. "For God's sake, what must I do now?"

 

"What did you do after you ran?" Molly asked, "You remember running?"

Sherlock swallowed hard, the memory of animal fear still bitter in his throat. "Yes."

 

Molly reached out and opened the door, "So what was after that? You do remember. You always remember when it's important."

 

Sherlock stepped through to watch himself, filth-covered, clothing tattered rags, hanging on a skeletal frame, the only expression on his face an animal terror, skitter from shadow to shadow in a snow-covered forest. He turned around to observe what his mind had not been able to take in then. 

 

It was a small village, the houses clustered around a central bell tower, and the sky was filled with strange stars. Strangest of all there was a statue of an angel out in the middle of nowhere with a mirror propped up in front of it. Now he wanted to take a closer look, but then it had been a nightmare; everything had been a nightmare. He watched the figure of himself run away and straight into a man dressed in Victorian style garments but with a haircut such as he'd see in modern London. And he was familiar; Sherlock had seen John watch a TV show with this man in it. "Impossible!"

 

"Truly, brother? Surely you remember the Everett Interpretation(notate in notes) of the Schrodinger's cat paradox? It has nothing to do with crime per say...."

 

"It has everything to do with crime Mycroft. For every act, there are variables I have to sort out to find the most likely but always keep the alternates in mind because humans do things for the most nonsensical of reasons sometimes. The Everett Interpretation aids in making sure I do not produce theories before facts like some. All alternates stay equally possible until I find the one that actually happened. A useful tool.” Sherlock stated back, watching the animal-like creature he had become being scanned by the green light of an instrument that was part in parcel of the fictional character. He watched himself with a distant pity as the man had murmured his name, or rather title, and the being he had been reduced to beg for an entirely different Doctor. "But I had never taken it this far."

 

"Still then, not impossible, only improbable." Mycroft reached out and tapped the statue of the angel with his umbrella.

 

"A product of delirium perhaps?" Sherlock postulated.

 

"Would you use a work of fiction as a comfort from reality, Sherlock?" Molly asked him.

 

"Not....usually." he followed along as the man, using a cane to brace himself and the  other  Sherlock, guided him into the bell tower and down to the basement, muttering about adrenal overload and hypothermia. He watched as the memory of himself again demanded Dr. JOHN Watson.

 

"I...remember you." The Doctor, the unwanted Doctor, said softly, "I... think I remember you." The man's dark sad eyes drifted to a glowing crack in the wall and back to him. "But.....no." he bumped his cane against his graying hair. "It's like a memory.....I can't remember. Or I don't want to...who knows. Rest, my friend, perhaps it will be quiet tonight." The man turned and rummaged around on what looked like a woodworking table, " And I can get the wheels on that train fixed for Gerta."

 

"This is important, why is this important?" Sherlock spun around, trying to take in the scene like he had not been able to at the time. The wall covered with children's pictures, the toys in their various stages of being mended, all fictional but not impossible, not truly impossible.

 

"It's a step on your way, Sherlock," A woman, a naked woman, stood to one side holding an apple. "And a place where you can make a choice. You can choose to plunge into a wider span of knowledge," she held up the apple. "Or retreat and perhaps let that," she pointed to the glowing crack, "be your fate."

 

"And what is that?" He asked, a part of himself wondering why he kept throwing up feminine archetypal images, perhaps because he had always know that women could be far more dangerous than men.

 

"In the time when you first saw it? A scar of a battle long over..... And a possibility to hope for. The woman leaned back against a tree that was suddenly present instead of a wall, as unconscious of her lack of clothing as a child, "In your mind as it is? An escape to oblivion."

 

"It would not be the first time I had sought oblivion." Sherlock said calmly.

 

"But that was all before John Watson walked into your life isn't it?" The woman tossed him the apple, "And what would you not do to get back to his side?"

 

Sherlock drew his eyes away from the glowing crack, from the fictional man, from himself as he had become, to focus on the shiny red and green skin of the fruit in his hand. It was dangerous he knew and for a moment he remembered a small pill in his hand that had promised an end to boredom. But then he had only been driven by a need to solve puzzles....now what beat in his veins was a far more vicious motivator. He grinned at the archetype of innocence lost, "Nothing, there is nothing I would not dare." He growled and took a deep bite of the apple.

 

The building shook under some kind of artillery fire and the man with the bow tie grumbled roughly, telling Sherlock's memory of himself to stay put. But he had been terrified, searching frantically for a way out, and when the man had hauled himself up the stairs, he had seen his way. Not the crack, but an arch made out of mist, steadied by a black pillar on one side, and a white on the other, with strange writing crawling up the pillars and onto the arch. He still did not understand what it had been but he knew now as he had known then that it was a way out, and that was all he needed. He and the memory of himself dove through at the same moment.

 

*******

 

Sherlock woke, his body shaking, his skin burning and icy cold at the same time, to look up into the face of Lestrade. "What?"

 

"No time, Sherlock," the DI said roughly, "just turn over." The man shoved strongly but steadily until Sherlock was on his side to see the pale form of John Watson. He reached towards him to find the Doctor's hands icy cold and he noticed a blue tinge to his lips and his nails. 

 

"John!"

 

"Yes, it's John," Lestrade said, "And I'm Greg Lestrade and you are Sherlock Holmes. Have we got all that now." Lestrade was wrapping a gold chain on which there was a large fire opal set as a pendant. "Now breathe, Sherlock." He commanded, strangely commanding.

 

"What?' Sherlock said, struggling to comprehend.

 

"John can't breathe on his own right now, you have to breathe for both of you, do you understand?" Lestrade had a hand on John carotid, feeling for a pulse.

 

"No."

 

"Then don't understand, just use the fucking stubbornness of yours and will John to breathe when you do." Lestrade's face was pale and dirt smudged. "Do it, Sherlock, or we'll be burying John Watson by sundown!"

 

Sherlock felt an instinctive growl rise in his throat. "Never!" He said and willed John to breathe. His own breath was unimportant, but John must always breathe, always live. If he didn’t, everything that Sherlock had done or been was for nothing.

 

He felt a hitch in his chest and noticed that John's chest now rose and fell with his own. With stern discipline, he forced his breathing to be calm and measured, no matter his racing heart, and was rewarded with a flush of pink coming back to John's lips. He stared, fascinated by it, until he felt Lestrade's hand on his shoulder. "Go back to sleep now, Sherlock. You aren't ready for everything yet. Rest and remember that John is waiting for you at the end of your Quest."

 

Sherlock would have liked to protest, but a wave of weariness rose up and covered him, plunging him into the depth of slumber, the feeling of profound security radiating from the point at which his hand was encircled in the soldier-surgeon's hand he cherished. 


	6. Reunification

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are finally reunited but that doesn't mean that the Great Detective can't still place himself in jeopardy. Ego may be the death of him yet.
> 
> Also a couple of new friends are introduced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am abjectly sorry for the unplanned hiatus with this story and hope that this chapter may help. I hope to start on the next chapter tomorrow. As always I owe everything to my extraordinary beta.
> 
> P.S. There may be on thing in this chapter you believe to be an error. It is not and I'll give virtual biscuits to anyone who manages to spot it!

John floated slowly up out of unconsciousness, the pain of his shoulder dragging him out of the pleasant dream that Sherlock was somewhere near him. He even thought he could sense Sherlock’s hand in his as it had been on that last doomed dash through London. The illusion was excruciatingly more painful than the wound in his shoulder. He tried to shift to break the hallucination and found his way abruptly to reality as the large, familiar, hand gripped his tighter.

“Don’t move, soldier,” a light baritone voice said with calm authority. “We are still working on counteracting the venom that got pumped into you.”

His eyelids felt as if they weighted tons but John stubbornly fought to get them open. He had to see; he had to know if the hand clasping his was the one he so desperately needed. Unfortunately his head was turned away from the warmth he could feel on his left side. As his sight cleared he saw instead the person tending to his wound. The man’s face was like enough to Sherlock’s that they could be related, more even than Mycroft’s, and his expression was of intense concentration. Even his eyes were as changeable as Sherlock’s but on a green-gold-hazel range rather than the detective’s blue-turquoise-green-gray spectrum. The delicately pointed ears that were half covered by the man’s dark brown hair, however, reassured John that he was not meeting yet another of the Holmes family. The man wore a jumper and trousers of rich colors John couldn’t accurately name. All of those thoughts passed swiftly with the feel of movement at his side and the man’s brief glance towards it. “Turn me over,” He croaked, “Fuck! Turn me over now, I need to see him!”

The man’s gaze was calm and unmoved by John’s appeal, “You _need_ to get the venom out of your system before your muscles degrade any further. Stinan carries a good medical kit but it was only enough to keep you stable until they could get you to a proper healer. As it is it may take weeks to get back your full range of motion.”

John shook his head, “No, no, Sherlock is still in trouble or he’d be hovering over your shoulder deducing you back to your first year of school. I _think_ I feel his hand in mine but I **_need_** to see him, I fucking need to be sure! Don’t you goddamned Alfain under-bloody-stand!” John tried to struggle against the paralysis and the long fingered hands that were undoing some kind of bandage to his left shoulder. The grip on his hand became crushing.

A female voice whispered words in a musical language that John couldn’t understand and the healer sighed, “Very well, give me a moment, can you, Dr. Watson?”

John nodded trying to gasp, but something was keeping his breathing to long deep breaths. After another moment’s struggle John let himself fall into the rhythm of them and tried to make sense of what was around him. He could see a circle of blue sky directly above, fringed with the variable greens of broad leafed trees. He blinked up at it, thinking that it might be something wrong with his vision but the white, puffy clouds moved and a small bird fluttered by overhead. All these thoughts streamed through his brain as he struggled to comprehend what was going on. Then the healer slipped a bit of cloth beneath him, and John felt himself float just barely off the cushioning bed he had been enveloped in.

“We can’t have any pressure on that shoulder if you want to be able to use it. “The healer muttered and gently slid a hand into the bare inch of space created to turn him so that John faced to his left.

The sight of the living, breathing form of Sherlock Holmes caused a sob to escape John’s tight throat even over whatever they had regulating his breathing. The detective was skeletal and fearfully pale in appearance, scars and bruises marking the deathly white skin. John could not see his glorious, kaleidoscope eyes but the frown was so familiar that John nearly wept with his inability to trace it with his fingers. The hand gripping his was indeed Sherlock’s; a gold chain with a fire opal was wrapped over and around their clasped hands.

“He’s keeping you breathing right now. “ The healer murmured, “His body may be weak but his will is strong enough to move mountains.”

“It always was.” John murmured back as he noted other details. He and Sherlock were sharing a bed that was encompassed by the roots of the trees that shaded them. The bedding light and warm. Another root jutted out to form a seat on Sherlock’s side. The female he had heard earlier was sitting on it; her gray cloak shrouded her so that only her face was visible. Her eyes focused fiercely on Sherlock’s face and her right hand was buried in the mop of the detectives over long, recently washed hair.

“Tell me“, he demanded, his voice aching with emotions that tightened his throat painfully, “tell me everything. The Gate sickness, how are you treating it? How _can_ it be treated? What the hell is the prognosis?”

“Calm, please.” John’s healer murmured, “You will do neither of you any good if you drain your energy demanding what I’m about to give you. As you can see a Mind Healer is working on him. So if you’ll allow me to turn you back, I can bandage your shoulder and explain exactly how my Lady is treating your friend.”

“She will succeed?” John’s throat ached with the memories of the patients he had seen die no matter what had been tried. He’d been at the bedside of every one and there had been no pattern to the progression of the disease that had killed them.

“She is the best and was among the first group of healers to independently discern what Gate sickness actually is.” John could tell a bedside manner when he heard it but he didn’t think the healer was deceiving him so he nodded, his neck screaming in pain from the effects of the venom.

The woman’s eyes shifted to his and he heard “None of that,” in a lilting contralto voice. He felt the slight touch of thin calloused fingers brush through his hair and the pain was gone.

“Ari!” the man scolded his partner.

“Gareth, if Holmes were aware of his Watson in pain he’d break the trance I have him in. I’m well enough.” The woman said calmly then refocused on Sherlock before John could frame a question.

The man, Gareth, shook his head slightly and gently turned John back over. At his side were pots of various ointments and trauma dressing which had writing in various colors on them. The four ties attached to each were each a different color with tiny flowing lines of script on them. He ignored that for now in favor of the main question. “What’s the treatment? I’ve seen cases myself.”

Gareth looked at him with a fellow Doctors’ sympathy. “Then I will tell you first that the main principle is to keep the consciousness of the patient separate from the body’s trauma. We are lucky this time that we have someone who this patient would fight death itself to save. Ari had less for the first case that she treated. However she’s as stubborn as your detective and pulled if off by guesswork. We know a lot more about the condition now.” The healer was examining the bandage minutely, apparently inspecting the writing on it. He then selected one of the pots of ointment, “I’d say this is going to hurt but apparently your pain is being drawn off so as to not to interfere with your friend’s treatment.”

John grunted at the fleeting sensation of cold as the healer began to apply the ointment to the arrow wound on his shoulder. “What causes the trauma?” He asked instead.

“Good question, you must be a very skilled physician.” Gareth said absently.

“Answer the fucking question.”

The healer grinned slyly then his face smoothed into concentration, “Very well. It is called Gate sickness because it is actually caused by passing through multiple Gates without allowing sufficient time between transits. We never realized that a Gate minutely changes a person down to the cellular level until we had this situation on our hands. Too many changes in too short a time and the body starts rejecting itself.”

“Anti-rejection drugs?”

“Don’t work because the body and mind don’t quite know what their normal state is anymore.” Gareth placed the pad and reached into the bare inch of space that was between John’s back and the mattress to wrap turquoise and orange ties around his chest. He tightened them professionally and tied off. “The trick is to keep the patient’s mind suspended from the bodies fight until the cellular structure decides what the new normal can be. Then that balance can right the consciousness and there is no more risk of a cascade of seizures.” The man was speaking absently as he finished the dressing. “Your friend is a special case however, he has a very highly tuned mind and it takes a delicate touch to keep it in balance while it is in suspension.” Gareth smiled gently down at John, “And my Lady is particularly skilled at mind healing leaving the physical healing in my hands.”

“You must make a very sought after team?”

John was surprised at the fleeting look of pain that crossed the man’s features, “We….can be,” was all Gareth said, “But that is another story. Other than keeping his mind steady, Ari is also sharing with him a basic knowledge of how magic works in such a systematic way that he will not instinctively reject it when he wakes up. Thereby easing his transition into this suddenly much wider universe.”

John would have sighed in relief if he could, “Thank you….really. I watched his brother try to live with the concept and he just could not deal with it.”

“Mycroft Holmes is being taken care of as well. It is not the first time that people suddenly exposed to what they’ve always conceived of as impossibilities have been eased into a wider view of the Universe. Holmes are special cases of course but we’ll manage.”

“Aren’t they always? Mycroft must be having fits….he didn’t even know Greg was one of you.”

Gareth’s steady hands turned John back to face Sherlock, “He’s is not the Holmes you need to be concerned with at the moment. Just rest and we’ll talk a bit more later.

John lay in the soft unfamiliar bedding allowing his thoughts to drift as he _felt_ Sherlock force his lungs to expand and contract in a semblance of normal respiration. That allowed him to feel other sensations through the masking effect of the poison in his system. The bandage covering his wound created a pulling sensation such as if it were sucking the poison out of him. Perhaps it was, he had no way of knowing.

But most importantly he felt Sherlock’s hand in his. The strength of the grip reassured him in so many ways but the shrinking of the flesh in the fingers told John his detective had taken the disregard he had for his ‘transport’ to a new level. “He should at least be on IV fluids.” John muttered towards Gareth who was puttering around in some cabinets built into the trunk of a tree on the edge of the moss covered clearing.

“It would actually interfere with the spells woven around you at the moment. They provide all the nutrition, hydration and even handle your waste so that we can interfere with your connection as little as possible.” The man said. “a’Strade covered the basics of magic with you. He told us he did. The matrices that hold those spells are centuries old and centuries strong. They were made for my Lady.” He nodded at the other side of the bed as he sat by John’s side. “Still, you could perhaps do with some water?” the man’s sly grin caused John’s lips to turn up a bit.

“Please, my mouth feels like part of Afghanistan decided to migrate to it.” John groaned.

“As it happens I’ve had some experiences with deserts myself.” He lifted John’s head gently and held a small cup to his lips. John sipped gratefully, feeling the slightly rough texture of stoneware. Everything here had a handmade feel to it, adding to his feelings of unreality.

John sighed in relief as the cup was withdrawn. “Ta. I guess I should ask as many questions as I can before Sherlock wakes up and rains them down on you. I’m feeling too relaxed though so why don’t we just assume I asked them and give me the answers.”

The healer’s smirk was filled with catlike satisfaction, “You are a wise man, John Watson. I’ll fill you in on the basics and save the details for your friend.

“As you may be able to tell I am not human, or rather I am not entirely human. My father was Alfain and my mother was human,” the man allowed his accent to broaden a bit in what was surely a calculated gesture. John could tell that he sounded most like a Welshman. “As such my name is Gareth ap Fithail. For your peace of mind I’ll tell you that I do actually hold a medical degree from the University of Edinburgh although I will admit to you that the date on the originals is roughly 1903. I can assure you that I’ve kept up with scientific advances since then. I come from a different Earth where the magic potential is slightly higher.”

“You are over a century old then?” John asked.

“Something like that.” The man grinned. “I’m old enough to have interacted with the Questers from time to time, but like all of my kind I was not eligible to be inducted or cloaked as they say. Only relatively recently a way was found for the aura that keeps our hybrid species alive to not interact with higher magic environments. Your friend a’Strade was cloaked before I was I believe.”

John felt the muscles of his neck unlock and turned away from Gareth to the sight he hungered to see. He examined Sherlock’s face minutely, at least all he could see of it. Those ridiculous cheekbones jutted even more sharply; the circles under the closed eyes were so dark that John’s jaw clamped in frustrated anger. He could have helped if Sherlock had taken him along. Could have reminded the detective to eat and sleep occasionally; not just when his body shut down from exhaustion. “Dammit Sherlock.” He sighed quietly, secretly grateful that he had worked through his anger on that front months ago so it didn’t break over his friend’s head now.

“Love can be such a vicious motivator,” said a rich contralto voice. John jerked slightly in surprise to see the healer attending to Sherlock smiling gently at him. Most of her form was covered by a gray cloak identical to the one Greg had been wearing. She had the kind of beauty John had seen in women on the streets of Dublin, although her features were more delicate. He couldn’t see her hair except for a bit that had a metallic red gold appearance to it. Her eyes, much like the other healer’s in appearance, viewed him with a vast understanding of pain for a moment, before focusing back on Sherlock.

 _Love?_ John thought in panic and tremors started to course over his body. Sherlock didn’t…..he couldn’t! John had long accepted his own intense emotions for the detective, but never dreamed that they could be in any way returned by the detective. John felt his body reach for air beyond the control that Sherlock had imposed. He started shivering in the multiple shocks that the last few days had heaped on him. Dimly he thought he saw the Lady reach out her other hand towards him then stop, arrested by Sherlock’s sudden, enraged glare. “Stop!” the woman croaked, “Don’t!”

John’s eyes closed as he felt himself hover on the edge of shock induced unconsciousness. Voices echoed strangely in his ears as he heard the desperate cry of Gareth “Ari!”

The woman’s voice was high with fear as she answered, “He’s taking too much, trying to find a way to protect Watson.” The woman groaned in desperation, “His will…so strong! He’s trying to get everything! Stop, oh Gods, please stop!”

John felt a sharp slap across his face and found himself looking into Gareth’s deadly gaze. The woman was nowhere to be seen but John could distantly hear choked gasps sounding from the ground on Sherlock’s side of the bed. “Use his name!” Gareth growled, then John felt another slap across his face. “Dammit! Captain, attention to orders!” The healer transformed into a commander of towering strength.

John felt himself finally struggle against the shock, the training of a lifetime coming to his aid, “Sir?’ he breathed automatically.

“You know Sherlock Holmes, THIS Sherlock Holmes, like no other person in any world. You _say_ his name like no one else in any world could. It’s the Prime Power, USE IT!” The orders came at him with battlefield speed. John felt all of his years in the military rise up to aid him binding him back into the control of a lifetime.

“Dammit Sherlock!” he said, despair in his tone as he felt the body beside him begin to twitch in a seizure. He knew that once the seizures began there was no way they would stop this side of the grave. The despair of standing before an ebony headstone, the anger at learning he had been deceived, the even greater rage at being left behind as if he were useless rose up in that moment and gave him the strength to sink his unbound hand into Sherlock’s curls and drag the clouded eyes to face his wrath. “You cock, you utter arsehole! YOU LEFT ME ALONE! You fucking made me watch you jump off the roof of St. Bart’s and left me to think it was ALL MY FAULT because Sherlock bloody Holmes always knows exactly what to do! You could have taken me with you, Sherlock! You SHOULD have! Mycroft could have staged my suicide in those first few months. Fucking Christ, it almost happened anyway. I had the gun in my mouth, Sherlock. I can still sometimes taste the metal and oil on my lips. So don’t you _dare_ leave me again William Sherlock Connor Holmes!” With the last word John saw the spark in Sherlock’s eyes focus on him and allowed the rage to drain into relief.

“John?” The deep voice was a disused instrument but John felt the thrill of long held love and desire twist through his stomach. The muscles of Sherlock’s body twitched one last time violently before awareness came back into his eyes. He was staring at John with the all-consuming fascination that was usually reserved for crime scenes.

Leadenly John dragged his other arm around to place his still mostly unresponsive hand on Sherlock’s neck, “Slow down, Sherlock. You….we are hyperventilating.” And indeed right now they were both breathing at such a rate that John felt his lips tingle trying to deal with the overabundance of oxygen in his system.

John saw Sherlock scowl in concentration as he forced their joined breathing into a natural rhythm with the ruthlessness that he always commanded over his ‘transport’. “Your arm and you hand, the movements are unnatural. You’ve been wounded.” It was not a question of course.

John allowed a bit of the surging joy he felt peak through on his face and in his eyes. “Yeah and I can practically see through you there is so little of you left. Needless to say neither of us are at our best right now.” He wasn’t going to say how he had been wounded. It could throw Sherlock into a daze or even a seizure again. Dimly he saw from the corner of his eye that Gareth picked up his fellow healer and keeping the hood of the cloak down over her eyes they stumbled away. He hoped they were sending other help but kept his focus on Sherlock.

Sherlock, meantime, drank in John’s face with utter absorption. Then his eyes strayed to the bandage and down to their clasped hands. He fumbled at the golden chain with his other hand, “Fire Opal and gold, representing fire and the pathways between Air, Sea, and Sky. Paths of communication and power between worlds, systems of thought, and systems of power. It joins our bodies, specifically breathing, allowing me to control your breathing, our breathing, while you muscles are impaired by a paralytic venom. Lestrade told me to breathe for you. He is here, and this is obviously working,” John felt them both take a deep breath at Sherlock’s will. “I know how this is done, how the stones maintain our bodies. How do I know?”

Sherlock’s eyes started to focus inward but John pushed clumsily at his shoulder. “Stop, you are not going to fucking run from me now. Not even into your Mind Palace.”

“There is so much.” Sherlock breathed and John would have punched him if he could.

“Sherlock stop right the fuck now! Before you dive into whatever you’ve stolen for that hard drive of yours, you have to answer to me. You left me the fuck alone when one word, one fucking whisper could have pulled me from the hell you left me in. I almost topped myself because I thought it was my fault you jumped, you bastard!”

Sherlock’s eyes sharpened back onto John’s face, “No, you were supposed to be able to move on. I meant…”

John interrupted him, “How the fuck could I move on when I thought my calling you a machine had been the thing that had made you jump! Why, because you saved my life that day we met at St. Bart’s did you think you could destroy it? I could have helped, I could have done something if you had just. Let. Me. Know!” John felt the suppressed grief and frustration shake him and he knew Sherlock saw it. “So help me you will explain exactly why you thought I couldn’t be an asset in this crusade of yours or as soon as I can I’ll walk right the fuck out of here and you will NEVER see me again.”

John’s heart twisted at the horror on Sherlock’s face. He breathed a little easier because his friend was no longer digging into his head for the wealth of information that had been imparted to him. “John!” the name escaped Sherlock’s lips with a gasp that John couldn’t help but feel. He also felt the unique intonation of his name flow through his body and understood the power that the healer Gareth had referred to.

John felt the aching muscles in his neck release and brought his forehead to rest against Sherlock’s bare chest, hiding the tears that were beginning to well up beyond his control. “Just…take me through it, Sherlock. Before anything else happens I need to understand exactly why you left me in Hell all alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment....especially if you notice the error that's really not one. I would love to hear form you. And honestly it will give me more impetus to write. So please...feed the muses.


	7. From the Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock discuss all that has gone before to find a way to move forward. And Greg Lestrade adds his two pence as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so sorry that this hasn't been updated in so long. A lot of RL stuff including trying to expand myself as a fiber artist. Also I'm a bit scared of posting this chapter. The OCs are an important part of this AU and I've put a lot of work into all of them. Please be kind

John felt Sherlock’s hand clasp his uninjured shoulder, his touch light, almost a caress. “John I…” The soldier felt the rate their shared breathing quicken for a moment and then slow to a more even rate. But he also felt Sherlock’s muscles shake in minute spasms against him. For a moment John feared that he had triggered a seizure then in his mind's eye he saw the dim lights of a pub in Dartmoor an ocean of time away and he knew; Sherlock Holmes was again afraid right down to the marrow of his bones.

 

“Sherlock.” He said, softly, with the care he would use approaching a traumatized soldier on the battlefield. “Just focus on that day and take me through it. You had reasons you always have reasons. Would I have slowed you down…?”

 

“No!” the interjection was fervent. “You never slowed me. I.. “ Sherlock ducked his head down shyly, “I had never thought so clearly, never shone so bright before you walked into Bart’s. You were, “ Sherlock closed his eyes and his voice became as soft and oddly hesitant, “ always….my conductor of light. Before I had only worked in the shadows, then you shone on me and I knew how to climb from the depths to the heights. I…” he choked and John felt the hitch in his breath. “I can’t….I can’t do this now. Your breathing….I can’t do this and keep you breathing.”

 

John felt the fear in the trembling of his friends weakened muscles and his heart melted but he persisted gently. “No, Sherlock, it has to be now. If it’s not now, when we aren’t quite safe yet. If you wait until we’ve pulled back from this edge, will you tell me the truth? Will I believe it? It has to be now. Tell me how, more importantly tell me why. I know on that day there were snipers, Mycroft filled me in as much as he could. But I need to know why you didn’t find a way for me to join you. It would have been so easy.”

 

Sherlock’s shaking hand grasped his arm, then slowly moved down to his wrist, taking his pulse. “The Pool.” He blurted and John felt Sherlock’s nose press against the side of his head as they both took a shaking breath.

 

“The pool? I don’t understand.” Then John smelt chlorine filling his nostrils and the heaviness of semtex strapped around his chest. “Oh.”

 

“Just so.” Sherlock laughed without humor, his overburdened body leaning into John’s. “I knew that night that I could never bear to have my actions put you in such danger. I could go into hell itself and not care what happened to me as long as I knew you were safe and had a chance at happiness.”

 

John nuzzled back against Sherlock, bumping his nose up against Sherlock’s chin, “I couldn’t… you….you were the most annoying git to live with. A child wrapped in a man’s body who threw more tantrums than any 2 year old. Wild, destructive, you pissed me off sometimes on a hourly basis, you did. But you were  mine , my own precious creature to take care of, to make the world just a bit easier to deal with. With you gone there was just this hole that could never be filled and all I wanted to do was join you.”

 

Now their breaths labored in tandem and John knew that it wasn’t only the spell that had made it so as he could nearly feel Sherlock’s heart pound from the fear of letting his emotions rule him, just this once. “I… I wanted that too, after the world went mad. I… I was shown….something, “ the younger man gulped,” it... he said he was the very face of fear that had lurked at the heart of man since before Homo Sapiens existed. He infected me with a terror that I’ve never known, not even at Baskerville. I fled from it passing from world to world, I know that now.  All I knew then was that everything I saw that just wasn’t  right . I ran and I ran and the only sane concept that still existed for me was that somewhere John Hamish Watson lived and if I could just get there he …you would help me make sense of everything. You keep me right, you’ve always kept me right. From the very first day.”

 

“Sherlock,” John felt his eyes moisten and he laboriously threw his arm over the man beside him and pulled him close. “You’re an idiot you know. You should have told me this before you left. We could have planned together.”

 

“I couldn’t, I couldn’t bear it.” Sherlock whispered in a broken voice. “I rejected you that first night at Angelo’s and after you were so adamant about not being gay. By the time I understood that you were so much more than just a flatmate I couldn’t find a way to undo it. Sentiment… emotions, I’m not good with them. I’m only the head. You… you were always the heart, John.”

 

Sherlock’s and John’s linked breaths were now sobs and John was certain that it was a release for the both of them. The world had shattered around them and only now that they clung together, naked in the wreckage, would they have a chance at putting it back together. And of putting themselves back together to become something stronger, something better than they had ever been.

 

The sobs faded in time and they clung together as well as they were able. “Tell me,” Sherlock whispered, “Tell me of London, of our London, John. Tell me of what your life has been, how you survived the Storm. I must know.”

 

“It’s…..it’s different.” John said haltingly, his reluctance to open his heart and thoughts getting in his way. But he had forced Sherlock Holmes to honesty and the scales had to balance. He was grateful that there was none other to overhear. “We nearly starved at first….no food was coming in. Then, “he swallowed, would he be able to tell Sherlock this? He had to, “There was…an invasion. Riders on fast creatures like giant horses but armored and they projected a shield that made bullets just bounce right off. I fought, everyone who could fought, but…” he made his hand grip Sherlock’s shoulder tighter, “I didn’t fight to survive, I couldn’t, I so wanted them to take me down. It would have been an honorable death, a soldier’s death and then I thought I could just let go and be with you again.”

 

“John!” Sherlock gasped in absolute horror which pained and reassured the doctor at the same time. He had often doubted his value to the Great Detective but feeling Sherlock lean into his chest and grip his wrist to feel his pulse brought home once again how essential he was to this man.

 

He nuzzled Sherlock’s curls, luxuriating in the feel of soft hair against his brow. “The Gray cloaks, the Questers, they saved me. One minute I was in the middle of a flood of this weird armored cavalry about to be trampled, the next there was a circle of those damned cloaks around me. I hated them at the time but they cut down anything that came near me. I didn’t realize then…Sherlock, do you know how important we are to them?”

 

Sherlock eyes flicked back and forth like they did when he was accessing memories. John tensed, ready to pull him out of his head again if he needed to but seconds later the detective’s glorious eyes cleared. “I believe so. There are stories, great and small, that slide between dimensions. In one world circumstances are such that the story can be real, people are born that fit certain parts that play out like variations on a theme. On other worlds the conditions are such that they can only exist as fiction, a book, a movie, a television series. All are equally valid; equally a representation of the force that the Story contains.”

 

“That’s what Greg told me.” John confirmed.

 

“Greg?” Sherlock’s forehead creased in confusion.

 

John laughed slightly, “Lestrade, Sherlock. Only he’s called a’Strade here. He’s one of them, one of the Questers.”

 

Sherlock looked far more shocked at this than he had to the concept of magic or that he was a part of an ever replicating story. “No, that’s not… I would have known. I would have at least known he was keeping something from me. There’s always something but…I should have at least suspected something.”

 

“Not if I couldn’t remember that I was a Quester whenever I was in the presence of one of the Holmes brothers. What I couldn’t remember I couldn’t betray.” Lestrade, clothed in a tunic and leggings of soft browns, grinned at them from the ‘doorway’ of the clearing. “It helped that the person who placed those spells on me had known a Sherlock Holmes and had a good idea about how to hide everything that the Holmes brothers didn’t need to know just yet.” Lestrade looked much as he did when he ran a fake drugs bust in 221B, cocky, slightly superior, and enjoying himself immensely.

 

Sherlock frowned at the detective, his eyes roving over the man’s face and form, assessing and deducing, before his eyes widened in epiphany. John felt an honest to god grin surface on his face. He had missed that moment of wonder and enthusiasm when his detective put together miniscule clues as only he could. “You were….bespelled. But,“ Sherlock frowned, “memory spells are rarely that reliable. The mind rebels.”

 

“Unless it is done at the full informed consent of the person being affected. And the proper term is  geased . I chose the geas so I could help you as much as the story allowed.” Lestrade’s cocky grin melted and his eyes filled with guilt. “You see we can only intervene in the Great Stories at certain points. No one, not even the Lady of Choice herself can influence Sherlock Holmes and John Watson’s story before the Fall. It has to occur and has occurred, every time, in every way that it can within the boundaries of the Story. Sherlock Holmes must seem to die and leave John Watson behind for a bit; no way out.” Lestrade’s tone became grimmer, “but now we are all a part of The Lady's Story, or we are all in the same Story. All bets are off and we make the best we can of it.”

 

“The mind healer?” John asked, his voice becoming hoarse, “Is she alright?”

 

Lestrade seemed to debate for a moment on how much to tell them, “She’s…recovering,” he said cautiously, his eyes assessing Sherlock carefully, “But we are concerned about how much Sherlock took from her. There are some things….” 

 

“Only the Lady of the Quest should know.” Sherlock said with that confidence in his deductive skills that was as much a part of him as the color of his eyes. “She was the one who was in my mind…she was the one who knew a Sherlock Holmes before.”

 

“Stop your headlong rush into fuckupery for once Sherlock!” Greg bit out, “You are in no condition to share all her memories and she’s in no condition to pull them out of you right now! If she even could!”

 

“Sherlock, please,” and John felt that again Sherlock was standing on a precipice. “I need you. If you Fall again I’m going after, I swear to God.” It was deliberate manipulation, using the imagery of the day at St. Barts and John knew it. It had never been a question if he would play dirty to keep Sherlock alive and sane. He’d do it every time. 

 

Sherlock eyes cleared as he focused and read John’s features. “John,” he said, softly as an angel’s kiss and leaned in to bury his face in the doctor’s hair and they breathed together for long moments.

 

John heard Lestrade cleared his throat uncomfortably at the growing intimacy developing between detective and doctor. “Okay I uh…..just wanted to make sure there were no…..problems starting here. I’ll leave you guys to…make your peace and everything.” Not looking at the bed where John and Sherlock rested the inspector pointed up to a tiny bird with gem-like colors. “The flitters will tell us if either of you are in physical distress or you can ask them to get me when you feel like company. They aren’t uh…sentient as such but they can find just about anyone and I know which ones live in this area of the enclave. Sufficient to the day are the fuck ups thereof and all that.”

 

“That’s particularly articulate of you, Lestrade.” Sherlock commented but his eyes never left John’s face. “The  geas  must have pulled more of your brain power than I had originally estimated.”

 

Lestrade grinned as he sauntered out of the clearing, “Or I just didn’t let on as much as you thought. And it’s a’Strade here, Sherlock Holmes. You’ve stepped into a wider universe than you ever dreamed. Time for changes.” Greg threw the last comment over his shoulder and was gone.

 

“He has undoubtedly wanted to say something like that to me for many years.” Sherlock said, briefly looking away from John toward the entrance to ‘their’ clearing.

 

“Once out of a thousand times, I think your ego can stand it.” John grinned back.

 

“I can stand anything now that you are here.” Sherlock’s features twisted for a moment, “That sounded utterly ridiculous!”

 

“Is it true though?” John challenged.

 

“Painfully so.”

 

“Then I think it will be okay for you to be ridiculous from time to time.” John focused on Sherlock’s mouth, he had wanted to kiss that mouth for what felt like centuries. 

 

Sherlock scanned his face and John knew it was for a last confirmation of John's intent, he started to lean forward and John was sure they were going to finally kiss but instead Sherlock breathed, "John Hamish Watson." And John  felt it!, he felt the unique intonation of his name travel down his spine like a lightening bolt then disperse through his nervous system like a warm wave. He moaned with the feel of it and saw Sherlock grin, "The Name is the First Power but only someone who cherishes you can ever say your True Name." the detective purred in his ear.

 

John caught that for the challenge that it was and his heart soared; the was what everything they were together was based on, each of them challenging each other to exceed expectations. John reached deep within and said, "William Sherlock Conor Holmes." letting his heart guide his tongue as he had earlier, "My Sherlock."

 

"My John," Sherlock sighed back with a look John had never seen before, absolute bliss. Then he leaned in the final inch and their lips met melding to each other. And wherever they were John knew he was finally home because he was in Sherlock Holmes arms....and that was home enough for him.

  
  



	8. A New Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely apologize for the long long hiatus in this story but I'm back!
> 
> John and Sherlock recover as they discover this new world that they have been swept off to join. In the process they reform their relationship into what it was always meant to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again I apologize for leaving you so long without an update. RL can be such a pesky thing. I'm making no promises about the future but I hope to finally get this story updating regularly again. 
> 
> And I wouldn't have been able to get this chapter to you at all if it not for the encouragement and inspiration of my wonderful new beta. She deserves all the kudos this story gets and at least a thousand more.

It took a week of daily visits from the healer for the venom to completely dissipate from John’s body, and everyday brought a contest of words and wills between Sherlock and Gareth. At first, John tried to keep Sherlock polite, but he finally twigged that Gareth _enjoyed_ the battle , so he just sat back and tried very hard not to laugh.

 

The first battle was joined because the healer insisted on removing the fire opal bracelet that bound their breathing together to check John’s progress. It didn’t go well and John could feel a gray mist descending before the chain was passed over his wrist again. Predictably , Sherlock was trying to cut the man down with deductions when John could hear again , but it wasn’t having the usual effect.

 

“Are you trying to add  _ another  _ human life to the frankly immense list of your kills?” Sherlock said in his coldest tone while keeping a hand clamped to John’s wrist. “ I s depopulating entire geographical regions not good enough?”

 

Gareth just shook his head, a slight smirk twisting his features, “Too obvious , Mr . Holmes , ” he chided . “ E veryone knows that story. Also , you likely got that from Arivinna’s memories of me. Try again when you have a  _ real _ deduction.”

 

John watched Sherlock gape somewhat like a goldfish , then his jaw clamp ed shut in determination. John stopped him by leaning into him . “Sherlock, not now,” he panted . “I need to catch my breath.”

 

Sherlock’s attention was immediately caught , so he merely growled and concentrated on helping John recover. “Don’t worry,” Gareth said in calm, kind tones . “I won’t be doing that for another couple of days. It ’s the only way I have right now  of measuring progress, John. Two days from now , we will try again. Maybe in that time , your detective will deduce something the entire universe doesn’t  already know.”

 

Sherlock growled again as the Alfkin healer left the clearing , but John recaptured his attention by clumsily combing his fingers through the dark curls that had so often tortured his dreams. John was astonished when the infuriated detective immediately melted right into him, humming in a way that reminded John of a cat purring. “Like that do you?”

 

“Obviously.” John was sure it was meant to be said in Sherlock’s familiar superior drawl , but instead the word was damn near moaned. So John continued , and within minutes , Sherlock had actually drifted off to sleep. He filed this away to be used as needed in the future.

 

The next day , Gareth came with bandages as usual , but also with a familiar black wolf trotting behind  him . “Morning lovebirds,” the wolf said , and John watched Sherlock’s face to see how he would react to either the words or the fact that an animal could talk.

 

“Allyrian, shapechanger, you know John and…Lestrade , ” Sherlock said the last word a bit uncertainly.

 

“Interesting , ” Stinan said . “You can see evidence of my Partner on me , but can you tell me how?”

 

“You say what he would say if he thought he could get away with it , ” Sherlock said definitively , but then went on more tentatively, “And there’s something…your familiarity with John is obvious but also a recent development. You went to the side of the room closest to him but you are near enough that I can smell the particular type of cigarettes Lestrade always smokes. They were always odd and I never could find the precise brand so they must be from other than our Earth.” the detective eyes narrowed further and John grinned, he couldn’t help it, he loved when Sherlock was doing his deductions. “And your coat is entirely black but I can see a few strands of short silver hair on your shoulder. I’m sure there could be other people here with similar hair but balance of probability would indicate they are from, what was it, a’Strade?” 

 

“Not bad for deducing your first non-human.”  Stinan stepped over to Sherlock ’s side of the bed while Gareth started changing the dressing on John’s shoulder. “I’m extremely fond of John Watson though . He fought very well against the driders. I’m glad my Partner has had someone so competent beside him in the field..”

 

“He fought with an barely tested prototype.” Gareth said dryly.

 

“But they worked , and without them we would have been in a lot more trouble , ” Stinan stated blandly.

 

“Argue that with Ari , ” Gareth answered.

 

“Where do you think a’Strade is?”

 

John hissed in pain a bit and that brought Sherlock’s attention right back to the healer .  “Is your preference for a blade so notable that you must stick one in John’s shoulder?”

 

“Sherlock!” John gasped . “Not...good , ” he grunted as Gareth prodded a bit around the arrow wound. He was relieved to feel it honestly ; the venom had made the area numb before.

 

“Blades have existed for thousands of years before guns came into fashion , ” Gareth said blandly , but slid his gaze towards Sherlock.

 

"You are familiar with many of them , ” Sherlock challenged, “the calluses on your hand show a familiarity with a variety of of combat styles exclusively involving bladed weapons. More than I’d expect any healer to have.”

 

“Not as many as my _taneth’en_. He’s more the swordsman than I.”

 

“I meant years, not blades.” Sherlock shot through and Gareth smiled slightly.

 

“Better , ” he said, gathering his things .  “Stinan, I’ll go see if you Partner needs rescuing. My preference for a blade is nothing next to Ari’s.”

 

“He refers to your Lady of the Quest quite informally , ” Sherlock said to Stinan.

 

“So does everyone who is not her enemy , ” the Allyrian replied . “If she insists you call her ‘your majesty’ , you are about ten seconds away from being at the end of her sword. Fair warning and all that.”

 

“Your majesty?” Sherlock questioned.

 

“So you didn’t get that part. Not surprising really; she detests that the Alfain shackled her to a crown. She says her place is on a saddle, not a throne.” Stinan sighed and put his head down on his front legs, “The Alfain gave into the pull of the King Arthur story.”

 

John’s forehead wrinkled . “Isn’t that a fairly recent story? And a human one?”

 

“Oh , it’s had other names , but that is the most recognizable one. It’s very strong, one of the strongest stories , really . Ari’s been trying to find a way out for a couple of thousand years.”

 

“How… is the Lady?” Sherlock asked tentatively. John was confused for a moment , but then remembered Sherlock had many of Arivinna’s memories. The intimacy of that connection made John uncomfortable to a degree he was trying to ignore. That Sherlock was caressing John’s hand as much as the chain that bound them allowed made the task somewhat easier.

 

“She’s recovered , but you won’t be seeing her until you are as well. We figure it was your panic that made you grab for more than she was giving you , s o we ’ll wait for John to recover so you are less likely to panic.”

 

Sherlock huffed, “Presumptuous.”

 

“No,” Stinan stated blandly . “ E xperience. Sherlock Holmes is widely known in the multitude of universes. In some you are fictional, in some actual, in some a bit of both , but in all of them , the lengths you will go to to protect John Watson is your most reliable feature. There is not one  universe where Holmes does not love Watson to the bottom of his soul.”

 

The depth of Sherlock’s blush only confirmed what Stinan said and gave John something to contemplate while Sherlock and the Allyrian continued to trade barbs. That went on for a bit and John could only stifle his laughter as Stinan refused to rise to any of Sherlock’s jabs. Just when he was about to lose control, the Allyrian stood, bloody well changed to his winged unicorn form. Just before taking off, he shot back, “I’ll make sure you get enough source material on Allyrians to get you a better chance at deducing us.” and leaped right up into the sky.

 

Sherlock’s body jerked as if he would go after him , but John pulled him back and buried his head in the taller man’s shoulder. That worked to distract him again until John simply could not hold back and giggled right into his beloved’s neck . “I thought that went well.” 

 

“John!” Sherlock sounded a bit irritated.

 

“Come on Sherlock, I could tell he actually  **wanted** you to be able to deduce him. Surely that ’s enough for your pride?”

 

“I’m not very good at it.” Sherlock grumbled ,  but shifted in the bed until he had his free arm wrapped loosely around John’s waist.

 

“I am absolutely sure you will get better , ” John soothed. He was a bit surprised by how comfortable he and Sherlock were with each other now. Any time before  when  they had shared a bed on a case out of town , they had stayed rigidly away from each other. He supposed with the everything happening around them this change in their relationship was on the low end of the scale. He also considered his blindness to Sherlock’s blatant need for for physical affection one of his greatest pre-Fall sins and was more than happy to start making up for it now.

 

It made the rest of their recovery easier since they were left alone for long spaces of time between visits by Gareth or Stinan and Lestrade. John got used to Sherlock cuddling right into him as soon as they were alone and he was liberal with affectionate caresses in return. They did not kiss because John was unsure of Sherlock’s experience and his own body’s ability to follow through where those kisses would lead.

 

Fortunately ,  they were both healing. Sherlock seemed to gain back muscle mass even as they slept or as they both read from the books that Stinan made sure to deliver. John put it down to the magic that surrounded them and decided he could inquire more closely later. It was so much more fun to watch Sherlock try to get a rise out of Gareth during every dressing change. And it should have been even more fun when he did , John thought later, it really should have.

 

John was taking a few stumbling steps across their clearing with Gareth’s support when Sherlock stated bitingly, “You could take at least as much care with John as you did teaching your children how to walk?” 

 

Gareth stiffened immediately and his expression went so cold that suddenly John could really believe that this man was entirely capable of killing sprees. However, it, did not  a ffect the Alfkin’s competence. He silently but swiftly guided John back to the side of the bed and helped him sit. Then , for the first time since their arrival, he bowed formally to them . “Good day Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes , ” he said in an icy tone, turned and left. 

 

“A bit not good?” Sherlock asked in such a small voice John knew he regretted his comment.

 

“A bit more than that I think , ” John answered thoughtfully. He’d read that Alfkin in themselves were sterile since they were a hybrid result of a human and Alfain parents , but Gareth had confirmed days ago he’d had all kinds of relationships over seven thousand years , including being a part of human families. He wondered why this particular mention of children was such a sore spot.

 

Later that day Lestrade and Stinan filled them in. “I should have let you know on the quiet,” Greg said as he sat against the side of the equine shape his Partner was choosing the wear that day. “One of us should have anyway. Did you deduce that or remember it?” he asked Sherlock directly.

 

“I deduced it at the time,” Sherlock said in such a subdued tone that John knew he had come to like the Alfkin. “But I’ve found some memories now. A boy and a girl; fraternal twins. The girl’s features resemble Gareth’s, but she has hair that is a metallic red-gold. Quite peculiar.”

 

“Twins?” John said, remembering the conversation he’d had with Greg in the cave before the drider attack. “Arvinna’s children?”

 

Lestrade rubbed his face . “Yeah. Gareth and his lover Diarmait  are Ari’s  _ taneth’le _ _. _ it’s an Alfain form o f marriage , and boy did it cause trouble.”

 

“The Alfain were incensed that their Queen had chosen two who could never give her an heir.” Stinan said. 

 

“But…they did?” John asked.

 

“By way of a literal miracle.” Greg said.

 

“Miracle!” Sherlock scoffed.

 

“Well , you tell me. Just after they...married they were called back to the to the Alfain crown planet to make a Royal Progress, something Arvinna was still required to do from time to time. One night she, Gareth, and Diarmait slipped away from everyone to visit a sacred spring privately. About 5 months later , she can’t stay awake for more than an hour at a time, irrefutable evidence that an Alfain woman is pregnant.”

 

“And the boy resembles Diarmait , ” Sherlock said with an inward look. “But they aren’t here…they can’t be here because…” Sherlock pressed his fingers to his temples. “It’s right there , but I can’t quite see!”

 

“Gareth is Arvinna’s foster brother. The Alfain have an ancient taboo about foster sibs having children , ” Stinan said in sad tones. “They are a highly telepathic species , so when there is too much shared history between the parents , children are born with memories no child should have to endure.”

 

“You’ve seen Children of Dune?” Greg asked John.

 

“Yeah, you mean they are like the pre-born?” 

 

“Something very like it. The twins had to be removed from their parents so that those memories would be buried and they could have a normal childhood. They haven’t seen the kids in a long time now , ” Lestrade said to Sherlock as he stood . “Listen, like I said, I should have let you know. This one's on me , but I don’t think you are going to see Gareth for a while. You only really need to start exercising now to recover fully. Tomorrow , Stin and I will give you a tour of the enclave.”

 

“I’ll bring transport for when your muscles give out . ” Stinan said as he also unfolded to stand on his four hooves. “Either way , it will give something to do instead of just gathering information on us.”

 

“I…” Sherlock started and then hesitated . “ W ould you convey my apologies ? ” He was sitting up on one of the roots that created seats next to the bed they shared. 

 

Stinan walked over and nuzzled Sherlock’s hair like he often did with Greg, “You have a good heart. Don’t dwell on this more than necessary. Coming into a new world everyone makes missteps. Keep stepping and you will learn our various dances.” 

 

John watched the pair leave, grateful that they were so gentle with their ignorance. Sherlock , on the other hand , was highly offended. “I do not have a good heart!” he scoffed. He got up and started pacing the clearing restlessly, even pulling a leaf off one of the trees that guarded their privacy and viciously tearing into small bits.

 

“You do, you know . ” John moved so that he was leaning against the pillows they had piled up on the bed . “ Y ou just like to hide it. You don’t have to anymore. I know it’s there and I’ll guard it for you as best I can.”

 

Sherlock was turned away from him . “John!” he choked , and his shoulders heaved just a bit.

 

“Sherlock, I might have been blind to you before the Fall. That’s something I’ll regret forever, but I’m not going to let those regrets blind me to you now. Come here.” John hoped to get Sherlock to settle but the man stayed turned away, every muscle in his body tense. This was going to take some more work. “Does it bother you more that you made a mistake or that you hurt Gareth more than you mean t to?”

 

“Both!” Sherlock growled then sighed . “Neither. I don’t know John. Which one was worse?”  H e turned to John pleadingly.

 

“Are you asking me to help you understand or to make that decision for you?”

 

“You never had a problem making decisions like that for me before!” Sherlock bit out viciously, cruel in his confusion.

 

“I’ve never been quite so aware of how important choices were before, love.” John patted the books that had piled up on his side of the bed. He had concentrated on history while Sherlock had delved into magical theory. “All of these tell me that our choices, large and small, define us. Even more for us because we are a Story; what we choose makes us different than all the other Sherlock Holmeses and Dr Watsons out there. I can guide you ,  but don’t ask me to make choices for you.”

 

Sherlock turned, rolling his eyes . “And what would your guidence be, Doctor?”

 

“First , you could stop spitting at me like an offended feline and come here!” John insisted, knowing he was better able to soothe his idiotic genius when he had his hands on him. 

 

Sherlock sighed like it was a penance and flopped dramatically ,  but careful of John’s comfort , onto their bed. They ended up with Sherlock’s head on John’s stomach and John stroked those eternally beckoning curls. “Second?” Sherlock asked even as his muscles started to unwind.

 

“Second , I’d like  you to consider  that don’t actually have to know everything in the universe right this second. Today you took a shot and hurt someone , but I don’t think you really meant to did you?” 

 

“No.” Sherlock sighed. “I just...I want you well.”

 

“I’m getting better everyday.” 

 

“Then why won’t you…” Sherlock’s tone was frustrated , but John could see his jaw muscles work as he shut his mouth tightly. 

 

“Ah, so that’s why your temper has been getting worse. Why don’t I what, kiss you? Start working on that tiresome virginity?”

 

“I’m not a virgin!” Sherlock flared, his eyes flashing with an anger he must have held for years . “Damn Mycroft! Just because he never caught me on camera doesn’t mean I haven’t done things!”

 

John grinned down at him, “Then why won’t you….” he trailed off deliberately. They needed this now ;  they needed to be sure of each other because everything else was unsure.

 

“Because that was just...curiosity and,” Sherlock’s voice lowered to a whisper, “And I hardly ever really got aroused.”

 

John combed his fingers through Sherlock’s hair again and trailed his fingers down that lovely long neck, smiling at the moan that elicited from the man in his bed. “But just this does arouse you.”

 

“John!” Sherlock said, exasperated, “Watching you drink a cup of tea is arousing!”

 

“You could have said. I might have done something about it.”

 

“Well I have said now , so do something about it.” 

 

“Mmmmm,” John hummed , allowing his hands to wander further than they had before. They were both wearing loose clothing woven of something that was as smooth as silk but was not. John stroked Sherlock’s arms, then his chest, watching with loving fascination as Sherlock turned into his caresses. “I think I just might , ” he said, noticing even with the loose garments that Sherlock was indeed already aroused. 

 

“Finally!” 

 

“Bossy , ” John murmured, pulling Sherlock up to him so they could share a kiss. This was  both  and entirely unlike those first kisses they had shared. Those had been vital to reassure each other that they were alive and together. But now , John took his time, lightly licking first Sherlock’s bottom then top lip. They opened under his attention , so he tilted his head to start exploring that utterly maddening mouth.

 

Sherlock lay passive underneath him for a few moments, no doubt gathering data, but then gave a sudden moan and John found himself flat on his back as Sherlock attempted to find every last sensitive nerve in his mouth. John stroked the muscles of his lover's back and allowed himself to submit for now under Sherlock’s relentless desire to discover. No scientist had ever had a more willing subject or one that took more pleasure in each new data point.

 

“Yes,” John breathed as Sherlock removed his shirt and started on his neck and chest, taking greatest care where the arrow wound still ached a bit. “Gods, you are so lovely.”

 

“You are the most gorgeous man I have ever known , ” Sherlock replied, licking at John’s right nipple. John felt every light touch of his lover's tongue all the way down to his groin and lifted his hips just enough to brush against the thigh that Sherlock had slipped between his legs. “I should have told you so years ago.”

 

“Show me now, love. Take this wherever you want it to go.” At Sherlock’s surprised look , he chuckled just a bit. “I always said I wasn’t  _ gay _ , but I never said anything about being  _ Bi _ .” He teasingly bit his lips. “ A nd I’ve never had a problem either receiving or giving pleasure.”

 

Sherlock’s smile was  both  shy and utterly seductive at the same time, “You never cease to amaze me, John Watson.” 

 

“I never mean to….. Ah , Christ!” he swore as Sherlock bit the nipple he had been licking and John arched his back in pleasure. He dimly remembered he was being practical, that his body was not quite up to doing what he had fantasized  about to his lover ; the rest of him didn’t give a damn. The rush of hormones heightened his senses and every touch just drove his arousal higher. “Damn, you are good at this!” he gasped as Sherlock, finally done with torturing John’s chest in all the best ways, moved on to his navel.

 

“I may have done some research.” Sherlock ’s amused purr  was  just as hot as the small nips he was placing all over John’s stomach.

 

“Just for me huh?” John panted, his hips now rocking, the material of the loose pants almost a torture on his cock. He was harder than he could  ever remember being since his twenties. He put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and pushed downwards slightly , n ot demanding but encouraging him. 

 

Sherlock grinned up at him and stroked his hand over John’s twitching cock, using the silkiness of the material to elicit a deep groan. “I had to do something on nights I could hear you in your bedroom.” 

 

That startled a laugh out of John, “You listened to me wank!”

 

“Intently , ” Sherlock growled, slipping those trousers down John’s legs to his knees. “ A nd regularly collected your internet history.”

 

“You wanted to know how I liked it?’ John smiled.

 

“I want to know absolutely everything about you, John Watson.” Sherlock held John’s hips down gently and trailed his nose over his groin. “I want to know how you smell, how you taste, the exact weight of you on my tongue. I want to know how you sound when you come, how you look… I want to know everything , John. May I?” he breathed right onto the already leaking tip of John’s cock .

 

“Fuck yes!” John groaned , the n cried out as  he was  slowly engulfed  in the  warmth of Sherlock’s mouth . He looked down to see one of his favorite fantasies come to life : Sherlock, his eyes closed with bliss, moving to take as much as he could, his tongue firm on the large vein underneath and his lips stretched around John ’s not inconsiderable width. Then he pulled back just as slowly, his lips tightening and loosening, causing John to try to thrust up against Sherlock’s hold.

 

“Patience , John.”

 

“Patience my ass! When have you ever been patient?” 

 

Sherlock smiled at him with such softness that John’s heart thudded in his chest, “I became  _ most _ patient the day an army doctor became my flatmate , ” he said and took John into his mouth again . 

 

John threw one hand over his eyes \-  the visual feast would bring him off much too soon  - but he allowed his other hand to rest against Sherlock’s jaw. He traced how his lover's jaw moved as he took in his cock, pressed his fingers against Sherlock’s cheek to feel his own hardness encased within. “God!” he choked, slamming his hand down on the mattress and clutching the sheet as Sherlock teased his retracted foreskin. “Stop, stop , love!”

 

“John?”  T he younger man sounded uncertain. 

 

“Come up here. I need to touch you, I need to feel you in my hand this second!” He tugged Sherlock up to his lips and explored the taste of himself in that glorious mouth. He slipped his lover’s trousers down and finally took that long lovely cock in his hand, revelling as Sherlock immediately thrust into his fist, pre-come already smoothing the way a bit. “That’s it,” John encouraged, “I need everything too. Everything you can give me.” 

 

“I want you , but we don’t have anything to…” Sherlock blushed and John kissed him even deeper.

 

“There are lots of things to do, love. Here,” he guided Sherlock to press his cock right up against John’s, “Oh yeah, that’s… that’s lovely.”

 

“John,” Sherlock groaned, his voice going impossibly deeper. 

 

“That’s it, now move just a bit.” John pressed himself up against Sherlock. “Yeah, just like that.”  T hey moved against each other slowly, allowing their cocks to slip against each other, the movement becoming smoother as the tension in their bodies grew. John had never taken thing so slowly his first time with a man but with Sherlock he could do nothing else. They deserved it.

 

Sherlock kissed him deeply, devouringly, as they moved together , but eventually he pulled back to press his face into John’s good shoulder with a sound very close to a whimper. “John,” he said, his muscles trembling with leashed tension. “I need...”

 

“Take it,” John groaned back . “ T ake what you need. I’m right there with you. It’s so good, so perfect ,  love.” John felt Sherlock quiver with John’s praise and a distant part of his mind filed that away. The rest of him was given over to thrusting against Sherlock with a growing desperation. “Please, love, just take. I need you , too.”

 

Sherlock groaned and started to set a far more desperate pace, crying out with each movement of their hips. John clutched one of Sherlock’s bunching ass cheeks and fucked right up into his groin. There were no words any more , only the language of passion as they, after years of restraint, took and gave themselves to each other in turn . John felt his orgasm approaching and tried to hold back until Sherlock could finish , but it was too strong and he shouted as the wave overtook him and he came in long glorious pulses, shuddering with his muscles rhythmic clenching. 

 

Sherlock cried out as he did, and sped up his thrusts, fucking right into John’s release while clutching his hips hard enough to leave bruises. His desperate cries rose until finally he also stilled and spurted warm and long over John’s stomach , shuddering and thrusting erratically as he continued to come. John felt his cock twitch as Sherlock slowly came down. This beautiful man had so much passion to share and this was only the beginning.

 

Sherlock hid his face in John’s neck, his tongue lapping at the sweat gathered there. “I… thank you John.” he said in a voice so very close to tears.

 

“Always, Sherlock. Always,” John replied, knowing that it didn’t exactly make sense. It didn’t need to. Their bodies had said everything that was truly needed. He somehow snagged one of their shirts without letting Sherlock move one inch from the shelter he had found and wiped them off well enough for comfort. “Rest now… everything else can wait.” 

 

Sherlock sighed and together they drifted into sleep, the tension of years of longing finally falling away from them both.

**Author's Note:**

> Would love to know what you think. Comments are candy...please feed the author.
> 
> We will be updating every Saturday/ Sunday as long as things in RL go well.


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